


Gléoláf's Wild

by ere_the_sun_rises (orphan_account)



Category: Lord of the Rings (Movies), Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friendship, Other, Romance, Team Bonding, Tenth Walker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:53:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 65,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ere_the_sun_rises
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I am peredhel; half-elven. A dying breed. I am ranger, lurking in the shadows, scorned and spat upon. Another dying breed. I am woman, yet I am warrior. Perhaps that breed was dying from the start. But unlike my mother's kin, I am not wont to sitting and singing despairing songs as my time here wanes. No. I have my blade in hand. I will fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Exposition

_Anyone can choose to fight for a cause in which they believe-_

_it is how far we will truly go that make the heroes, the villains, and the martyrs._


	2. Exposition

 

**Prologue: The Fall of Edhelion**

Year 2570, Third Life Age of Middle-Earth

_August 6_

The morning was a bright one, the sun casting its long, slanting rays through the single bay window in the large room.

A clash of bronze broke the serene setting and sent it hurtling far away.

“Nice spin, Gléoláf. Keep that up!”

I grinned at the praise from my master, ducking and jabbing at his legs. He sprang back, nimble as a stag, out of my reach. Still too quick for me.

I rolled aside to avoid his next blow and countered with my own, before springing back up onto my feet to parry yet another strike.

He took a swipe at me, but I once again shied out of his reach, using my own blade to tap his wrist.

“Good, Gléoláf,” he murmured, coming in to attack again. “Use your speed and agility against your stronger opponent. Press your advantage.”

I pressed it, all right. He stabbed out at me, but I dropped to the ground, tumbled between his legs and came up behind his back. Before he could turn to engage me again I had my sword pressing lightly into his spine.

“ _Lle lava?_ ”

_(Do you yield?)_

He paused, before grudgingly replying: “ _Amin lava_.”

( _I yield.)_

I withdrew my guard, but as soon as I did he whirled and thrust his sword at me. Unfazed, I calmly knocked his wrist, making him drop his hilt with a slight hiss of pain. I picked up the other weapon and I reached up, trapping his neck between the two blades.

I shook my head, clicking my tongue softly. “Sloppy, Talagan. Do you expect to beat me with that kind of technique?”

He put his hands up in the air, and I smiled sweetly. Then, I slowly withdrew my weapons, making sure to let the cool edges slide against the soft, exposed flesh of his neck.

“Very good, Gléoláf,” my master conceded, as I walked over to the rack to replace the two bronze swords in their rightful places. “ _Very_ good. For one your age you have an uncanny proficiency at weapons. I don’t believe I’ve ever trained one as naturally talented as you.”

“I think it has something to do with the teacher,” I smiled, brushing sand off of the shoulders of my tunic. “He’s quite good at what he does, after all.”

Talagan chuckled, and ruffled up my golden blonde locks. “You’re a clever little elfling, Gléoláf. If I didn’t know otherwise I could easily call you Elrond’s daughter by birth. Even his own is more like Celebrían each passing day.”

I grinned, and my master nodded. “But you are a very gifted fighter, young one. I only hope that your skills may never be tested on a field of battle.”

“What use is learning to fight if I never fight?” I frowned.

“It is a skill that the high-born are customarily taught,” Talagan replied. “All young people are fiery, passionate for their homes and their loved ones. If a fight ever does come to your doorstep, then you must fight for what you believe in.”

I watched Talagan as he strolled to the window, speaking softly all the while. “All the same, war is a dirty business. It is one that we have not seen for nearly three thousand years, but one never knows when these things may happen.”

He turned abruptly to me, and said: “The laws of the warrior.”

“Stand strong for those who cannot.”

“Yes.”

“Show no mercy to those who will give you none in return.”

“Yes.”

“Victory is worth any sacrifice.”

“You have the heart of a champion, Gléoláf.”

I bowed at once to my master, and he returned the gesture. Then, he placed a hand on my shoulder. “Soon you will not need me any longer.”

My face fell. “But you still have to teach-”

“The rest you will teach yourself,” he smiled gently at me. “Your father will educate you in matters of lore and house, and before long you will forge your own sword.”

That thought returned the smile to my face.

“See?” Talagan got a bit of a wistful look, and said softly: “The next time I see you I daresay you shall best me in every way possible. I am no seer, but I have a feeling you are bound for great things, little one.”

“Little no longer,” I stood taller, crossing my arms.

“Little no longer,” Talagan agreed, before striding to the corner of the room and putting his sharp steel dagger on the small table before calling across his shoulder: “You should make sure you are prepared to leave, Gléoláf. I daresay that Glorfindel will be here any moment to escort you to Imladris.”

I made no move. I had packed my things this morning, and I wanted to stay with Talagan a few moments longer before I had to leave my master behind. He had said it himself- the next time I saw him I would likely be an _elleth_ grown, a responsible she-elf of high stature and importance.

“You know, Elladan says he’s going to take me to Mirkwood so I can outshoot the prince,” I boasted, as I sat on my trunk.

“Did he, now?” my master rolled his eyes, leaning against the doorframe. “And I suppose Elrohir will take you to Lórien to outspar my cousin the marchwarden?”

“Maybe,” I shrugged. “I could beat them both.”

“Perhaps,” Talagan gave me a look. “I warn you now, Haldir is a formidable foe, and I’m not entirely sure he’d go easy on you even if you _are_ just an-”

A loud shriek interrupted him, and the both of us jumped at a sudden outbreak of clashing steel and screaming. My heart set to thumping.

Talagan peered out the door, and stepped back hurriedly as the most welcome sight in the world appeared to my eyes.

“ _Ada!_ ” I leaped off of my trunk and rushed forward into my adoptive father’s arms.

“Gléoláf, I thought they’d found you,” he whispered into my hair.

“What’s happening?” I asked as he released me.

Elrond turned to my master. “Talagan, the Dourhands are after the relics in the library. They’ve allied themselves with the Blue-crag goblins and they’re raiding Edhelion.”

My heart thudded hard in my chest, but I couldn’t suppress a stab of excitement. A _real fight._

“Gléoláf, you’ll need to stay here,” Talagan’s voice broke into my reverie and I immediately spluttered in protest.

“That’s not a request, young one.”

And suddenly Elrond and Talagan were leaving me in the dust, and I was alone in the sparring arena, cursing my luck.

I sat again on my trunk and folded my arms, a dark scowl encompassing my features. _And meanwhile, Gléoláf the mighty sat on her trunk and pouted._

I jolted when I heard a death rattle outside of the window. I rushed over to the bay window to see a goblin cackling as it pulled its spear from the mangled body of a young elven soldier.

I should have shied at the sight of blood, but hot fury surged through my veins. Without thinking, I snatched Talagan’s long, curved dagger from the table. _Stand strong for those who cannot._

I shoved the window open and leaped down in front of the soldier, drawing the knife and tucking the black leather scabbard into my belt. The goblin hissed at me, pointing its spear at my chest. _Show no mercy to those who will give you none in return._

“Victory is worth any sacrifice!” I cried aloud as I leaped forward and thrust my weapon into the goblin’s throat. It choked, gurgled, and gasped. I watched with grim satisfaction as black orkish blood coated the weapon’s blade, before the goblin’s corpse slid down to rest on the ground.

I rushed out into the open, into confusion and noise.

 _That_ was when I felt a surge of fear. I was a virgin to the battlefield, an innocent to the haze of war.

“Lady Gléoláf!” I turned around at the sound of my name.

“Glorfindel!” I leeched onto the captain of my guard as he hurried up to protect me.

“What are you doing out here?” he demanded. Looking up at the scene, he changed his mind, grabbing onto my hand. “Never mind. I must keep you safe. Hurry, come with me to the western gate!”

I rushed after Glorfindel as he took off running, checking behind himself every few moments to make sure I still followed.

Without warning, three dwarves charged him. Metal scraped against his scabbard and he felled one, whirling to face the second.

The third ran for his back. Without thinking, I sprang forward and drove the dagger between his shoulderblades.

Glorfindel turned to see me pulling Silvertongue from my fallen enemy, staring at the bloodied knife, horrified. Had…had I just…just…killed…someone? A goblin was different; my father had told me that a dwarf was a free person of Middle-Earth, with other things to live for besides dying by the hordes for their leader. _What have I done?_ My hands began to tremble.

“Talagan does not exaggerate,” Glorfindel muttered, grabbed my hand again and hurried on, not giving me too much time to think. Looking back, I realize this was most likely a good thing.

“Hurry, Gléoláf!”

We reached the western gate to find a troll pounding at it, with angry roars. The goblins holding its chains cackled and shrieked, leering through the gates at me and Glorfindel. I gulped, clutching Talagan’s dagger tightly.

“They have a mountain troll,” Glorfindel hissed. “Of course.”

The troll ripped the gate from its hinges, and threw it aside with an earth-shaking clatter that knocked me to the ground.

I looked up to see the troll advance on us, its feet pounding and shaking the ground. Glorfindel, looking slightly shaky, gripped his sword hilt and prepared for the attack.

Without warning, the troll roared and pitched forward with an earsplitting crash.

My foster father came into view, holding weapons for the first time I could remember. He looked frantically about, before catching sight of us.

“Glorfindel!” he cried over the roar of battle. “Skorgrím Dourhand is at the library! He insisted I find Gléoláf. I should have stayed with him! We need to get back to the library, NOW!”

He looked down to see me. I prepared for a scolding, but instead my _Ada_ ’s face went white, and he whispered: “Oh no. No, no, no.”

“Come quickly, young one!” I fought to keep up. My legs ached from running and my stomach lurched with the scent of blood and the screams of the fallen.

“Hurry!” I rushed after my _Ada_ , fighting back tears. I had never been so afraid in my whole life, smoke stinging my throat and tears streaming out of my eyes.

We arrived at the stairs to the refuge. I took them four at a time, leaping like a cat that was being pursued by angry wolves. When we reached the library at the top of the stairs, the three of us froze.

A yard, maybe two, in front of us stood a heavily-armed dwarf with an ornate crown, flanked by three other dwarves and a goblin. Before him, blocking the doorway was my master, his green robes soaked with blood and his legs shaking from the effort of staying on his feet.

“Stand aside, elf,” the dwarf said in a cold, unsympathetic voice. A shiver ran down my spine and I fought the urge to collapse and cry.

“I will not let you walk into Edhelion undeterred,” Talagan panted, gripping a pillar for support. “You have one more chance. Leave now, Skorgrím, and never return here!”

Skorgrím laughed a high, cold laugh. “I think it is I who should be making the demands! You stand alone, Silvertongue! None can help you now.”

As the dwarf and his entourage began to stride forward, Talagan closed his eyes and began to murmur under his breath, in an ancient brand of elvish that I didn’t understand.

“Oh, Talagan,” my _Ada_ whispered, shutting his eyes.

Glorfindel grabbed onto my hand and squeezed it.

A moment later I knew why.

As Skorgrím reached where Talagan stood, the pillars began to snap and cave on themselves.

I shrieked. “TALAGAN!”

I fought against the golden-haired elf, trying desperately to get to him, help him, do _something_. This was Talagan Silvertongue! In a few minutes he’d pop out of the rubble, and we’d all ride to Rivendell, laughing about how he’d almost had us completely fooled.

_Victory is worth any sacrifice._

“LET ME GO!” I shrieked, in hysterics as I thrashed in my captain’s grip, trying to go to him, dig him out…

_Any sacrifice…_

The last of the refuge collapsed, burying Skorgrím Dourhand and Talagan Silvertongue, encasing them in stone, entombing them in rock, at the mercy of the ages.

_Sacrifice…_

Defeated, I slumped against Glorfindel, biting on my lip so hard that I drew blood. _True warriors don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry._

Glorfindel stood, picking me up with him. I kept a tight grip on his robes with my one free hand, holding on to Talagan’s bloodied dagger with the other.

Elrond sighed, rubbing his forehead and shutting his eyes.

After a few long moments, he spoke again: “Take her by the safest road, to Imladris. I will be back in a few days. We may decide what to do then.”

Glorfindel sat me on his horse, mounting up behind me.

At last I burst into tears, tried to say “Talagan” but failed.

“He’s gone, little one,” Glorfindel murmured. “Let’s get you home.”

Mind-numbing sorrow soaked into my bones and crushed all of the light inside of me. I only processed one coherent thought.

My grip tightened on Silvertongue.

_Never again._


	3. I: Rendezvous at the Pony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When I had returned to my seat, he looked at me, and then spoke, finally. “Did Mithrandir enlighten you on why he sent me after Gollum?”
> 
> I frowned. “I asked after that. He was…vague. He spoke of his ‘suspicions’, and after that he would say no more.”
> 
> Strider looked me in the eye. “His suspicions were related to Bilbo Baggins, and…well, you should have more knowledge of those endeavors than I do. As I was saying, he was beginning to suspect that magic ring of his.”
> 
> “The magic ring,” I said doubtfully. “What sort of suspicions?”
> 
> “Well, related to a few recent events and observations of his have led him to believe that the magic ring is a little more than it seems.”

**  
I: Rendezvous at the Pony**

Year 3018, Third Life Age of Middle-Earth

_September 28_

The wind was cold, blustery, too cold, but I could not help but smile as it whipped at my cheeks, stinging at my skin and bringing a pink tinge to my bloodless complexion.

“Come on, Melisand!” I called, my heels digging into my courser’s side. He snorted, tossing his head and leaning into his bit as he galloped down the well-worn paths, where the grass grew green between the cracks in the old weathered stone.

I sat back in the saddle, holding my arms out into the wind, whooping as Melisand passed through the gates of Bree, hooves clip-clopping as he slowed to a trot and maneuvered through the townsfolk, even as they parted to let me by. Those on horseback had the right of way in the village, and I moved carefully among the people, going about their typical autumn business.

I didn’t look like any of them, and even if I did my garb betrayed me as a foreigner. I was too tall to be a Bree-lander, my hair too gold, my accent too southern. And no one in Bree had garb rich as mine; velvet doublet and soft wool breeches, high riding boots made of supple leather, thick traveling cape fastened by a silver brooch in the shape of a wolf’s head.

As we reached the northern point of town, I reined Melisand in to an easy walk. He was lathered with sweat from our earlier run, so I patted his neck gratefully and rubbed his nose as I swung down off of his back. I unbuckled my scabbard and pulled it loose, tucking it under my arm and turning to the approaching stableboy. “Will it be food and bedding for the night, m’lady?”

“For now, yes, thank you,” I replied. “Turn him loose if he gets restless, he won’t run off.”

“Yes, m’lady.” The stableboy bowed his head, and I turned the reins over to him. Mr. Butterbur certainly had some well-mannered stablehands, but the same could not be said of his patrons. As soon as I pushed the door open the crude jests and barks of laughter, along with the scent of sour wine and people who had not bathed in several days, hit my senses. I wrinkled my nose, and buckled my sword back to my belt before braving the crowds.

Several times I dodged a bold hand in the nick of time, shooting a poisonous glare in the direction of its owner, reminding them that I was _not_ some bar wench to be grabbed around the waist and pulled into the lap. I wouldn’t squirm, that was promised. Any men who tried to pull that sort of stunt with me would more like get a knife in the groin. They must have gotten the message, because they let me alone.

I strode up to the counter, clearing my throat. The barkeep turned to me, wiping a dirty mug with an even dirtier rag. “What can I do for you, miss? A room, perhaps? I have a few open to you.”

Barliman Butterbur, the proprietor of the Prancing Pony Inn and Tavern, was an immense balding man with a beard and sideburns that gave him the appearance of a walrus. “I’m looking for someone. Tall man, dark hair, blue eyes. Probably dressed sort of ragged.”

Butterbur’s brow furrowed as he thought, tugging at his greasy beard with meaty fingers. “Can’t say I’ve seen such a man, miss.”

I fought back a sigh. Barliman Butterbur was not known for his fantastic memory, but this time I figured it had something to do with my target. If he did not want to be found, he would not be found. “He’s fond of pipe-weed. He might be sitting about in a hooded cloak. Does that sound familiar?”

“Now,” Butterbur waggled a finger at me, jowls quivering. “I _have_ seen that sort of stranger about, miss, but he’s a ranger. You don’t want to be a-meddling in their affairs. Dangerous folk, they are, and best you keep away from their sort.”

“I think I’ll be fine,” I told him lightly, tapping the hilt of my sword. “Is he staying here?”

“He’s in the room to the right of the stairs, last I looked,” Butterbur said uncertainly. “But I would warn you against his ilk, miss. He’s an awful shady sort.”

“I know all there is to know about the shady sort,” I assured him. “Good day, Mr. Barliman.”

“Good day, and careful, miss.” He returned to wiping his mug, giving the stained pewter another layer of grime. “You were warned.”

Rolling my eyes, I turned around and dodged another reckless grab before I made it in the hallway. There was a rough-looking man in the hallways with a scar crisscrossing his cheek, the highway robber-looking sort. I eyed him as I went by and he grunted; spat a yellow glob onto the floor just shy of my foot. “What are you staring at, girlie?”

Knowing it was best not to answer these types, I continued walking, turning into the next hallway, and going straight past the preserved bear trophy, rearing and clawing the air almost as if it had been frozen in life. The wood panels creaked under my feet as I turned right at the stairs, and found myself face to face with the door.

I raised my hand onto the door, knocked: _rat tat TAT ratatatum ratatatum._ I waited.

“Come in,” a voice said, faintly from within.

Slowly, I pushed the door open. I peered inside with caution.

There was a fire crackling in the hearth, throwing a soft orange glow over the room. I proceeded inside, wary, surveying my surroundings.

“Where are you?” I muttered, tense, brows furrowed. My head whipped up to the ceiling, but there was nothing there. I moved slowly across the room, towards the bed, proceeding with vigilance. I stood by the wall, inched slowly towards it, and kicked my foot under there.

My boot hit empty air. “Hmm,” I muttered, eyes searching the room.

They fell on the door, lying open against the wall, but just enough room to conceal a body. Smirking, I tiptoed across the floor, readying my sword arm, placing my hand on the knob.

I flung the door closed and lashed my arm like a whip, and my knife was in my hand. “ _Ha!_ ”

The bare wall greeted my sights. I frowned in momentary confusion. If he wasn’t here, then where could he be? This was the only other place that could conceal a man and have him prepared to strike…

Unless…

The scenario flew through my head in an instant. _Man conceals himself within room. Waits for guest. Door opens, loose hinges cause it to hit the wall and bounce back, appearing to conceal a body. Guest expects to find man behind door. Throws door closed, shutting off vantage point in the halls, therefore putting their back to the shadows-_

I whipped around and raised my knife. It met another with a _crang._

“There you are,” I muttered, and parried his strike. He lashed out at me again, but my arm arced out and blocked. He flung his fist at me but I caught it and threw it aside, trying to use his momentary imbalance to get him between the shoulderblades.

He ducked my strike and bowled into me, knocking me into the wall. He plunged his dagger at my breast but I slipped out of his grasp like a wriggling fish, tumbling between his legs, coming up behind him to latch my arms around his neck and jump up to wrap my legs around his waist. Clinging to his back I took my dagger and prepared to strike at the spot between his shoulderblades, but his legs tangled under him suddenly, and we went tumbling to the floor, me landing first. Groaning, I lay on my back as he shifted off of me, taking his dagger and stabbing the air just shy of my ribs. “Die, foul she-demon!” he cried, and I scowled at him. “Let me up, you oaf.”

Obligingly, he stood and resheathed his dagger, extending a hand to help me up. Grinning cheekily as I dusted myself off, he told me, “Good to see you still put up a fight.”

“Oh, shut up,” I muttered, glaring at him. “I had you up until you tripped on your own feet.”

He eyed me, amused, as I set my cloak back to rights. “I thought I’d almost had you there with the door.”

“You nearly did,” I admitted. We stared at each other, and then we threw our arms around each other in a strong brotherly embrace. “I’ve missed you.”

“I have too,” he said, as we let go of each other. “I haven’t heard from you in nearly three years. Where have you been?”

“In Ered Luin,” I replied. “With Elladan and Elrohir, on _Adar_ ’s business. Don’t look so wounded, you don’t merit being hurt when I go off for three years when _you_ pulled the disappearing act for a whopping _eight._ I left on this mission while _you_ were off hunting that skulking creature Gollum. I’m allowed to conduct business without you, you know.”

He was a more interested by the latter part of my statement. “You know about Gollum?”

“Do you think that Mithrandir keeps me in the dark?” I cocked an eyebrow. “Come now, _Otoro_ , when you named me your heir you honestly should have expected me to know the things he tells you. I’ll be running this nation when you bite it, provided you don’t leave a son, and judging by your current track record that seems fairly likely.” I peeled my gloves off, tucking them into my belt. “I’d heard you got him.”

“Just last year.”

“Where did you take him?”

“Mirkwood. He’ll be kept safely in Thranduil’s dungeons.”

I snorted. “I don’t know, I know of a certain instance in which a hobbit acting alone managed to break thirteen dwarves from their prisons.”

“Well, no one will be trying to break that creature out,” he asserted, picking up the flask on the table and taking a swig out of it. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he offered it up to me. “The ale here isn’t bad, but the wine is foul.”

“I know,” I said, taking it from him and drinking deeply. “I smelled it out in the commons.” I set the flask down again, and looked up to him. “So tell me, Strider…that is what they call you, am I correct?” he nodded. “I thought so. Tell me, Strider, what has you summoning me so urgently to this little northern town? I don’t think I’ve been through here since Mr. Butterbur was sucking at his mother’s breast.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And here I thought you knew all of the things Mithrandir told me.”

“I’ve been rather preoccupied, Strider, and I’ll elaborate on those issues later. If these matters are as serious as you made them out to be then skip all this flouncing formality and enlighten me.”

He looked at me a moment, blinking. “I had forgotten how sharp your tongue was.” Then, he shook his head, bracing a hand on the table and stretching a hand out to the opposite chair. “Perhaps you’d best sit.”

I did as he suggested, sitting, folding my hands on the table. He took the chair opposite my own and set to lighting his pipe. I waited patiently as he tapped out a packet of what I judged to be Old Toby, and set to lighting it. My fingers drummed lightly on the tabletop.

As soon as that had been done, he looked up to me, releasing a puff of smoke that floated up towards the ceiling, dissipating into the air. I coughed and went to open a window.

When I had returned to my seat, he looked at me, and then spoke, finally. “Did Mithrandir enlighten you on _why_ he sent me after Gollum?”

I frowned. “I asked after that. He was…vague. He spoke of his ‘suspicions’, and after that he would say no more.”

Strider looked me in the eye. “His suspicions were related to Bilbo Baggins, and…well, you should have more knowledge of those endeavors than I do. As I was saying, he was beginning to suspect that magic ring of his.”

“The magic ring,” I said doubtfully. “What sort of suspicions?”

“Well, related to a few recent events and observations of his have led him to believe that the magic ring is a little more than it seems.”

I rested my elbow on the table, leaning my chin into my palm, chewing on my thumbnail. “More than it seems, you say. Like...well, perhaps you would share with me some of these ah, symptoms that Bilbo was showing.”

“Unnatural longevity,” he shared, puffing on his pipe. “Erratic behavior, snappish at times. Suspicious of people he wouldn’t normally be suspicious of. Separation anxiety.” He said the last part disturbingly lightly, as if he wanted to trod carefully around it, like it was a dangerous, wild animal. I swallowed hard.

“Definitely unusual,” I murmured, when I had mulled that over a while. Strider had not bothered me. He knew I liked to mull things over. “I once knew Bilbo Baggins. He was not the suspicious sort. Not many hobbits are. I can see why Mithrandir was disconcerted.” I looked up. “He thinks this is a cause of the ring?”

“He does.”

“Pray tell, where has it gone?” I frowned, staring intently at the seams in the table like they were at fault. “If he still has it, he should dispose of it at once. We don’t know what kind of permanent after-effects that his little trinket might have on him.”

“It has passed from his hands,” Strider reassured me, releasing a ring of smoke that we both watched float to the ceiling.

“How long?”

“He left recently for Rivendell,” Strider said, returning to his pipe, gnawing edgily on the end of it. “It’s in the possession of his nephew Frodo, from what he told me.”

“Well, who’s to say he won’t start to show the same behavior?” I stood, my chair scraping against the old wood. “That thing seems dangerous. We need to get it from him and have it melted down, before any more harm can be done.”

Strider gave the table a wry look. “To have it melted down; we’d need to take it to the very core of Orodruin.”

I froze in my tracks, staring at him, my brows drawn together in shock and disbelief. He gestured again at my seat. “Sit down.”

I did as my chieftain commanded me, sitting down heavily, resting my head on my hand, staring at the floorboards. “The most recent word I received from Mithrandir came about a fortnight past, from the Shire. He summoned me urgently to Bree, and he told me he’d be here in a week or two. He mentioned riding off to Isengard to speak with Saruman, and I’ve heard no word since. We’re expecting Bilbo’s nephew, Frodo, and his traveling companion. He means to see the fellows escorted to Rivendell, and he wanted my help to do it.” He shook out his pipe as it began to die out, tapping it to rid it of the ashes. “But now the hour of Mr. Baggins’s arrival draws upon us, and no one, bird, man, or beast can reach him. That’s why I called upon you. I have need of your skills to get us safely to the House of Elrond, great need. This is the most important mission I have ever set you to. Will you accept it, or must I make it an order?”

There was a hard glint in his ice blue eyes, blue like I had only ever seen in the glaciers of Forochel. He had never ordered me to do anything. I had always accepted his missions. He had my loyalty, my oath, my life, and my honor. He had bestowed upon me honors and titles greater than my father would ever have imagined, but with those honors and titles had come responsibilities that added the weight of a dying nation to my shoulders, sent me on forays deep into the wilds that had put scars in my skin, my mind, my heart. I had gone to the ends of hell and earth for him, but never because he had ordered me to.

And if I had brought that upon myself by choice, how dark was the road ahead to be? I feared, but I seemed to be lacking options. He _had_ given the order, after all.

“As my chieftain commands.”


	4. II: A Sad Lack of Sacking Songs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He died in the Sack,” I said softly. “Most of them did. Those who escaped fled down to the banks of the Lhûn. No one would go there again, and…well, it’s a ruin now.”
> 
> “Shame. I hear it was a lovely spot.”
> 
> “Some places grow tainted by the memories of what happened there,” I spoke quietly. “You’ve never been in a sack before, have you? No. You wouldn’t know, then…there’s such a sad lack of good sacking songs, you know. What happened there that day will keep it empty for centuries. And if I’m to speak for the rest of them, I’d be glad to leave it alone.” I tapped the table again. “Besides. It snows there now.”

 

 

**II: A Sad Lack of Sacking Songs**

_September 30_

It was two days before the stableboys finally worked up the courage to ask me the question.

They had watched me brush Melisand from behind a stall door, crooning to him in my father’s tongue, feeding him the apple that had come with my plate the night before. I had never been one for apples, though I did have a fondness for when they were sliced and stewed in cinnamon and cloves. That was one quick way to my heart. The raw apples were better left to my faithful steeds.

Of the stableboys, there were four. The eldest was a strapping youth, roughly my height, tall for a Bree-lander, and with lighter hair too. The second and the third had the look of brothers at about eight years old, and the last looked barely old enough to be five, and always had dirt smudged on his nose. They shared all the tasks of stable and a common passion for horseflesh, one that I could relate to.

I had been there two days when the eldest finally stepped out from their hiding place, the other three standing behind him like he was a mother hen and they his chicks. “What’s ‘is name, m’lady?”

I turned to them, quirking an amused eyebrow and affording them an upward twist of the right corner of my mouth. “I was wondering when you would come out.”

“ _Told_ you she saw us,” the little one whispered, but one of the brothers hushed at him. “His name is Melisand,” I told them.

“He’s a courser,” the oldest one said, crossing his arms. “You came here dressed all fancy. Do you have others?”

“By other mounts, yes,” I said, rubbing Melisand’s velvety muzzle as I scratched his forehead. The horse whinnied and tossed his head. “I have a palfrey, named Anláf. He’s stabled at the house of my uncle, right now. Likewise for the destrier. Beowulf is with my uncle as well.”

“You have a _destrier?_ ” one of the brothers gaped. The other _shush_ ed again.

The oldest one, well-muscled arms crossed over his chest, wrinkled his nose. “Women don’t need destriers. They don’t fight.”

“This woman does,” I told them breezily, tapping the hilt of my dagger, buckled to my hip. “You of all people should know that, boy. Are you one of Éogar’s brood?”

The boy seemed to stand up a bit straighter then, proud that I’d noticed. “I am, m’lady. He calls me Hereric, after his father’s father.”

“Well, Hereric son of Éogar, a Rohirric boy such as yourself should know of the shield-maids. Have you?” all of the boys shook their heads. “Well, that is a sad gap in your education. Return to your father on the farm one day, and ask him about Lady Steelsheen. He’ll tell you a good story.” I peered out the stable doors at the fading light. “Pardons, I fear I’m needed inside.” The boys parted for me as I moved through the stables, outside into the dusk and the brewing storm. Thunder rumbled overhead and a brief flash of lightning illuminated the skies. I turned inside without dawdling.

Since my arrival the word had spread of the strange tall woman with the gold hair staying at the Inn of the Prancing Pony. Some whispers went around that she was the mistress of the mysterious ranger, the enchantress lover of that man they skirted in the streets and called Strider. I laughed, partly because of the silly townsfolk gossiping like a few overexcited chickens, and partly because Strider’s honest lover really was an enchantress in her own right. It made me laugh to think what the people here would think of her, if they thought _me_ an enchantress. Well, there would be a new rumor, certainly, that Strider was courting a goddess.

I had traded my richer clothes from Rivendell in for my more worn ranger’s garb, a simply-stitched tunic of olive and breeches soft from long use, old shabby leather boots, a deep ranger green hooded cloak, and a faded black sash that belted about my waist, the tassels frayed and the image stitched into it barely distinguishable. I could recall the day it had been given to me, brand-new, the embroidering glossy and the fabric smooth in my hands. Rangers made their oath for life, before their chieftain or whoever else was in command at the time. _To pledge is to give, protect and serve._ You would place your sword at the feet of your lord and commander. _To pledge is to be given, fealty with love, valor with honor, disloyalty with vengeance. To pledge is to give blood._ That was the hard part. The pain had flashed hot and my teeth had ground hard on each other when the dagger’s point had sunk into the shell of my ear.  The men whispered that the longer you bled, the more blood you would shed for your lord and commander over the years. Mine had bled a long time. _To give blood is to be given glory._ I had bowed my head, closed my eyes and raised my hands, and the new sash had been pressed into my waiting grasp. I had brought it down to stare at it, in awe. _To pledge is to swear to obey the orders and carry out the wishes of your chieftain, lord, and commander._ Strider had taken me by the chin, lifted my face to his. I was tall, but he towered over me easily. Looking up at him from where I had knelt was like looking up at a monolith. _Do you swear,_ he had asked me. _I do swear,_ I had answered.He had drawn forth the small silver stud then, and pushed it into the hole the dagger had made. There it would rest, until the day I died, and after, lingering as I rotted away into dust in the ground. _Rise now as our brother, a sworn brother of the Rangers of the North._ I had gotten to my feet and my new brothers had come in to shake my hand and clap me on the back, offering their congratulations.

That had been years ago, when I had been younger and more carefree. Those days had gone now, and my clothes were worn, and two metal loops had joined the silver stud in my ear. The first was made of bronze, made to mark my being an officer, sent abroad by the chieftain himself, into the great ice bay, where seven had left and four had returned…the second, reserved for the chieftain’s heir, was steel.

Strider had a third loop in his ear. What metal that earring was crafted of, I dared not ask. It had been passed down among the chieftains for generations, forged by the Kings of Arnor…some said that the chieftain’s loop was a small fragment of the Blade That Was Broken, but I dared not ask Strider. Some things he would not even tell me.

As I strode into the dark corner he had situated himself into, a booth hidden by the shadow of the enormous hearth with its roaring fire, by the windows that showed grey skies and threatening flashes above. I slid in beside him, pulling my hood up and eyeing him sideways.

He paused in the smoking of his pipe, probably arching an eyebrow under the hood. “What?”

“I honestly wish you would stop dressing like a highway robber,” I sighed, reaching into my hood to scratch at the back of my neck. “It makes you look shifty.”

“I _am_ shifty.”

“Then you shouldn’t feel the need to wear it for the world to see. This mission is going to require a bit of trust on their side, and I must say, the hood and pipe aren’t helping.”

“ _You’re_ wearing a hood.”

“I’m not sitting here in the corner like a brigand.”

“Yes you are. You’re sitting here, right next to me.”

“ _You_ picked the spot.”

“You want to sit out there and be fondled by a bunch of drunkards? Be my guest.”

“They wouldn’t touch me, not when the scary highway robber is sitting right next to me.”

 Strider pursed his lips, knowing I had caught him this time. He might be able to beat me in a fight, but when it came to words and wit I was always on top. There was a sword buckled at my hip, a knife on the other and a dirk at my ankle, but my mind was the true weapon.

“Observations of dress notwithstanding,” he said, returning to his pipe, “I won’t take the hood off.”

“Have it your way. When we have to add kidnap to your list of crimes, Mr. Robber, I won’t say I didn’t warn you.”

We lapsed into silence, mostly, after that, keeping to ourselves as the clouds broke and the rain poured down over Bree, as the tavern filled with rowdy men, telling lewd jokes and laughing, bellowing at the serving wenches for more ale, though they were having a hard time going about their jobs when so many were being dandled on the patron’s laps while hands went exploring down their bodice. Butterbur had taken to bringing the ale about as well to try and fill the gaps in service, bustling about like a bee in the springtime when there were too many ripe flowers to land on at once.

I drummed an odd rhythm or two out onto the table, traced the seams where the wood panels had been nailed together, hummed half-familiar tunes and dozed. This was the worst part, the waiting. Monotony. I took to counting how many men there were that were missing an eye, and gave up halfway through. “Strider, are you sure they’re supposed to come here?”

“I would stake my life on it. They’ll be here. Be patient.”

I sighed, blowing a strand of hair out of my face. Telling me to be patient was like telling a mammoth to step lightly. I crossed my arms and leaned grouchily back into my chair, bored out of my mind. I reached for my dagger and dug for a whetstone. A blade could never be too sharp, in my opinion.

This blade was getting on in the years, it showed in the leather grip; stained with blood and sweat and lumpy in places, as it had molded to two different hands over time. The blade was still sharp, I kept it that way, and the tassels with the two stone beads were still there. This dagger was Silvertongue, the blade with which I had claimed my first kills. The dagger that had belonged to my master before he had fallen at Skorgrím’s hand. I could still recall the day that he had attacked Edhelion, the place that had finally started to feel like home to me, and ripped it all away again. At first my mind had been in shambles, but as I recovered the memories had come back to me, slowly. Now, years later, I could only recall the stronger sights my young eyes had seen. I could remember a goblin rattling and spewing black bile from his mouth as he dragged himself around on his remaining arm. I could remember a young elleth’s red hair being pulled as one of Skorgrím’s dwarves had ridden her like a horse, screaming shrilly for mercy while tears streamed down her face. I could remember the horses screaming in agony and galloping from the stables, their manes and tails engulfed in a blazing nimbus of red, red fire.

I put the dagger down.

Strider looked to me. He appraised the blade for several moments, and then said, “An old weapon.”

“Very old,” I said, watching it on the table. “It belonged once to my master.” I picked up the dagger and slid it back into its scabbard, unable to look at it any more.

“You’ve spoken of him before,” Strider said, chewing the end of his pipe. “Telegorn?”

“Talagan,” I corrected. “Telegorn was his great-grandsire. He was my weaponsmaster. Much of what he taught me, I passed on to you. He was…a good spirit. A good soul.”

Strider was silent for a long while. “I seem to recall, he was the last Master of Edhelion.”

“He died in the Sack,” I said softly. “Most of them did. Those who escaped fled down to the banks of the Lhûn. No one would go there again, and…well, it’s a ruin now.”

“Shame. I hear it was a lovely spot.”

“Some places grow tainted by the memories of what happened there,” I spoke quietly. “You’ve never been in a sack before, have you? No. You wouldn’t know, then…there’s such a sad lack of good sacking songs, you know. What happened there that day will keep it empty for centuries. And if I’m to speak for the rest of them, I’d be glad to leave it alone.” I tapped the table again. “Besides. It snows there now.”

That was the final word on the subject.

As the night wore on, the rain showed no signs of letting up. I began to doze in and out of consciousness, despite my best efforts to stay awake. Strider stayed silent beside me, smoking, deep in thought. And I drifted, somewhere between the realm of dreams and the world of the waking.

 _She’s shaken, Erestor. She will need time. Time to heal her heart…and to understand. She is too young to know what she has seen. Perhaps it is best._ Lord Elrond’s face hovered above me, hazy and out of focus.

 _No,_ I wanted to scream. _I’ve gotten older and now I know, I know, tell me so I can understand…_ but he was gone, and there was a dragon flying above me, roaring and spewing great jets of flame.

 _Under the arm,_ I shrieked, pointing. _Under the arm, shoot under the arm, there’s a gap, a gap in the scales…_ a black arrow pierced the dragon under the foreleg and he roared, going down down down… and as it fell it spewed one more tongue of red fire, and the heat melted my flesh away until I was nothing, but then I began to grow back, like a tree does after a forest fire burns it to ashes. _The trees have strong wills,_ Talagan said, _and they endure through the ages._ I spun away, whirling like a top. _It keeps spinning,_ a young boy with pale blue eyes giggled delightedly as he watched it go round and round and round…a small girl sat on the side of a hill, watching the sun come up. _I’m so small,_ she told me, mournfully. _Just one little hobbit. How can I change the world? I’m just one little hobbit…little hobbit…hobbit…hobbit…hobbit…_

“-hobbit-sized rooms available.” My eyes snapped open and traveled to the bar, where Barliman Butterbur was leant over the counter, speaking to four halflings in sodden cloaks. “Mr.… Uh…”

“Underhill,” said the first. “My name’s Underhill.”

“Strider,” I murmured, sitting up. “Would you look at this?”

“Underhill,” Barliman nodded, looking the four newcomers over with a scrutinizing eye. “Yes.”

“We’re friends of Gandalf the Grey,” Underhill said, “Can you tell him we’ve arrived?”

Strider puffed on his pipe. I gave him a sideways glance, then looked back to the hobbits.

“Gandalf?” Barliman frowned, tapping his chin with his finger. “Gandalf?” his finger popped away suddenly. “Ohhh, yes! I remember, elderly chap, big gray beard, pointy hat.” Underhill nodded in agreement. Barliman shrugged. “Not seen him for six months.”

Underhill, looking stricken, turned to his companions. I looked sideways to Strider, who met my eyes this time. “He calls himself Underhill but he looks for Gandalf. I think we’d do well to keep an eye on this one.”

“Two eyes,” he muttered through his pipe. “As often as we can spare them.”


	5. III: Mr. Underhill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They’re all so young,” I said quietly.
> 
> Strider looked me over. “We were young once.”
> 
> “We were young when the world was easier,” I rose, petting Frodo’s dark curls from his eyes. “Poor things. So far from home, and with long ways to go yet.”

**III: Mr. Underhill**

_September 30_

            The Shire-hobbits had gotten themselves a table. Underhill, the only one named so far, sat staring into his half-pint of half-decent ale. The second hobbit sat next to him and stuck close. The other two, considerably younger, had sat there sobered only a little while, before one had gone merrily traipsing off to the bar to have a pint, despite the protests of his friend that he’d had a whole half already.

            Now, Underhill’s watchful companion was eyeing us with some contempt, and after a few moments had gone by he nudged his friend in the arm, and nodded his head towards us. “Those men have done nothing but stare at you since we’ve arrived.”

            Underhill knew how to look discreetly, I would give him that. His eyes flicked slowly to the side, and he watched us carefully. I couldn’t tell if he knew we saw him or not. When Butterbur next went by, he stopped the blustering innkeeper and spoke to him. “Excuse me. Those men in the corner…who are they?”

            Butterbur looked up at us nervously. Then, as if he could sense our eyes, he looked back down to the hobbits. “Begging your pardon, little masters, but it’s a man and a woman you see. The one with his pipe…what his right name is, I’ve never heard, but ‘round these parts he’s called Strider. A ranger. Dangerous folk they are, wandering the wild. The other is a woman, strange woman, tall with gold hair of the likes I’ve never seen. Word says she rode into town on a horse made of wind and she turns into a wolf at night, hunting in the Chetwood and feasting on the flesh of them that are out too late in the dark.” He peered at us again, and then warned them, “These days there are all sorts of unsavory folk in these parts. Best not stick your neck out.”

            Underhill eyed us again as Butterbur moved on. I turned to Strider, chuckling. “Next they’ll say my husband is a dragon. At least they have you pegged about right.”

            He snorted from beneath his hood, but my attention was diverted by the young hobbit at the bar, talking loudly to the men around him. “Baggins? Sure, I know a Baggins.” He turned around, pointing out Underhill, whose eyes had opened wide in what I guessed as mortification. “He’s over there. Frodo Baggins. He’s my second cousin once removed on his mother’s side, and my third cousin twice removed on his father’s side, if you follow me…” Strider lowered his pipe as Frodo Baggins went dashing for the bar. “Pippin!”

            “Steady on!” said Pippin, and Baggins slipped on the slick wood panels and went tumbling backwards onto the ground. Something shot up into the air and glimmered. Strider stiffened beside me. Baggins reached up for the thing, fingers outstretched, the glimmer sank onto his finger, and without a sound Baggins was gone.

            Gasps rang out in the tavern. Strider rose casually and I did the same, as the other three hobbits looked to each other in confusion, and the men began to talk among themselves. Strider moved slowly around the perimeter of the walls, tucking his pipe into his cloak. I followed after, my hand resting reassuringly on the hilt of my dagger. I always felt better to know I had something sharp when it came to situations like this.

            I didn’t realize my pulse had been hammering until Baggins reappeared suddenly, just a few feet off from where he had vanished. I looked to Strider, but all I could see were his stubbly jaw and his mouth, pulled into a thin grim line. He stepped out to the pale hobbit on the floor, reached out, and seized his shoulder in a tight quick grasp, yanking him to his feet. Baggins gasped and stared at the dark depths of his hood with wide blue eyes. “You draw far too much attention to yourself, ‘Mr. Underhill’,” he hissed, before pulling him down the hall. I followed after him, watching the tavern warily.

            I ascended the stairs and entered the room, closing the door behind us as Strider tossed Baggins down onto the mantle. “What do you want?” he demanded, in a quavering voice. Strider moved about the room, putting the candle flames out with his bare fingers.

            “A little more caution from you, to start,” I answered instead. “That is no trinket you carry.”

            “I carry nothing,” the hobbit said defensively, hand covering his jacket pocket.

            “Indeed,” Strider said testily, peering out the window and at the road. “I can avoid being seen if I wish. But to disappear entirely…” he yanked his hood off, and the hobbit stared wide-eyed at his face. The defined jaw, the prominent brow and the clear icy blue eyes had been far from the rough brigand image that Mr. Butterbur had painted in the young halfling’s mind. Only his long unkempt dark hair and scratchy stubble remained to tell he had been on the road a long time. “…that is a rare gift.”

            “Who are you?” the hobbit asked, softly.

            “Are you frightened?” Strider asked him, sounding contemptuous. He’d always had an irritating habit of answering questions with questions when he was peeved.

            Baggins swallowed, then nodded near imperceptibly. “Yes.”

            “Not nearly frightened enough,” Strider deduced. “I know what hunts you.”

            Before Baggins could speak, the door rattled and Strider and I whirled to face it, swords ripping from sheaths in the blink of an eye.

            The door flew open and struck the wall, and the three other hobbits crowded in, Baggins’s stalwart companion brandishing his fists at us. “Let him go, or I’ll have you, Longshanks!” he roared. Pippin and the other stood behind, armed with a candelabra and a three-legged bar stool.

            I chuckled as I resheathed my sword, earning a stern look from Strider. “You have a stout heart, little hobbit,” I told him, “but that will not save you.”

            “You can no longer wait for the wizard, Frodo,” Strider said, looking to the windows. “They’re coming.”

_October 1_

            The shrieking came in the small hours of the morning. Sam, Merry, and Pippin sat up gasping, but Frodo had been awake through all of it, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at his hands. Strider sat at his post by the window, still as a statue.

            “What are they?” Frodo asked, looking up, fixing us with his wide blue stare. Merry, Pippin, and Sam, as the other three had named themselves, as the shrieking died away and the heavy tramping of iron-shod boots echoed in the halls. Their horses were rearing outside, snorting. I stared out the window at them and looked away, unable to bear the sight of the deformed beasts a moment longer.

            “They were once men,” Strider said, as the stomping faded away. “Great kings of men. Then, Sauron the Deceiver gave to them nine rings of power. Blinded by their greed, they took them without question, one by one falling into darkness. Now they are slaves to his will.” The both of us glanced out the window as they mounted their horses, riding away and wailing their unearthly shrieks. “They will never stop hunting you.”

            I laid my hand on Strider’s shoulder. “ _Sedho, Otoro. Gorgyn sen il.”_

_(Quiet, brother. Do not frighten them.)_

He shifted in his seat, and I lifted my hand away, sighing softly, crossing the room to where the hobbits all sat. “Lay down. You should sleep now. We’ll leave soon, at dawn.” I sat on the edge of the bed.

            Slowly, they all heeded my words, laying down and closing their eyes, drifting off one by one. Even Frodo dozed off eventually, and I shifted him so he lay down more comfortably. I smiled when he yawned and burrowed into the pillow, his face more relaxed and contented than in waking.

            “They’re all so young,” I said quietly.

            Strider looked me over. “We were young once.”

            “We were young when the world was easier,” I rose, petting Frodo’s dark curls from his eyes. “Poor things. So far from home, and with long ways to go yet.”

            Strider fixed me with a scrutinizing eye, but he said nothing.

            “You should rest too,” I said, breaking the silence, not feeling tired at all at the moment. “You won’t get much in these coming days.”

            “I’ll rest when we get to Rivendell,” he finally said, brooding, his face taut like it got when he felt the weight of the world on his shoulders.

            “You won’t get much rest there either,” I said plainly, striding up to the window, my hand resting on his shoulder again. It was very stiff, tense. “This storm you kept describing to me…it seems it’s brewing overhead. It’s due to break soon, and when it does…”

            He sighed a little, and I squeezed the shoulder that sagged, rubbing circles into the back of it with my fingers. “Rest, Aragorn. Sleep until dawn. I’ll watch.”

            I settled cross-legged into the wide sill of the window, crossing my arms and pressing my cheek against the cold glass pane, watching my breath fog and distort the images outside. The stables became a castle, the smokehouse a sleeping dragon. The fences became a running mountain range, and the winking lights in the distance became the campfires of dozens of soldiers camped out along the hillsides.

            _“I’ll save you, beautiful princess!” Calanon announced, brandishing his sword- a twig we had found under the cherry orchards, fallen from the branches above._

_“Ha!” I popped out from beneath the dragon’s tail (my shimmering emerald-green bed drapes, laying in a bunch). “The brave princess has found a jeweled knife in the dragon’s hoard. She may free herself if she can find the evil dragon’s weakness!”_

_Calanon dropped his sword, frowning. “You’re the princess. You can’t save yourself. The prince does that.”_

_I stood up, defiantly crossing my arms. “Well why can’t I free myself? Master Talagan’s teaching me to use the sword. I can too free myself.”_

            “Who are you?”

            I jolted from my reverie, hand jerking Silvertongue from its scabbard out of instinct. I looked over to see Strider asleep, his head lolling against the back of the chair. Frodo had woken and he had sat up again, looking no better-rested than before.

            “Who am I?” I questioned, putting the knife away. “It depends on who you’re asking.”

            “I’m asking you.”

            I blinked, fingers drumming against Silvertongue’s hilt. “What is it that you want to know? My name? I could tell you my name. I’m Gléoláf.”

            He watched me, silent a few moments, and then spoke again. “I want to know why you’re here. I want to know how you know Strider and why you’re with him.”

            “Now,” I sighed, shifting and stretching my legs out. “Those are questions not as easily answered. Well, I’ll tell you why I’m here. I’m here because he told me to be here.”

            “Why did you do what he told you?”

            “Because it was compulsory to the oath I took.”

            “Which oath?”

            I grinned. “Are you frustrated yet, Mr. Baggins? No one has the patience for this business, and I’ve always found it oddly amusing. They ask one question and they expect me to answer a dozen others. I answer what is asked of me. Now…perhaps you’d like to try again?”

            He paused, thinking, mulling it over. Finally, he looked up at me, in the eye. “Who was your father?”

            “A soldier. Try again.”

            “What was your father’s name?”

            “Éodain.”

            “Where was he from?”

            “A tiny village.”

            “Where was that village?”

            “In the middle of a plain.”

            “Whose lands were they?”

            “Brego’s.”

            He looked me over, appraised the sharp angles of my face and the lankiness of my figure. “You’re Rohirrim.”

            “In a fashion,” I replied, taking Silvertongue out and beginning to pick under my left thumbnail.

            Frodo crossed his arms. “What was your mother’s name?”

            “Saerwen.”

            “Of which race did she belong to?”

            “The elves.”

            “Which faction?”

            “Rivendell.”

            He lowered his eyes, thinking again. “What happened to her?”

            I paused. There were so many answers to that one that I could give him. Many things had happened to my mother.

            “She died,” was what I decided on. “Get some sleep, Frodo.”


	6. IV: The Long Road, the High Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’s foul enough,” Merry fumed. I snorted, affording a what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you look from Strider. The hobbits had paused in their conversation, and I knew without looking that they would be eyeing me warily.
> 
> Any servants of the enemy would be able to hear you, I thought of saying, but Frodo whispered, “We have no choice but to trust them,” and the conversation was over.
> 
> The poor lads had a lot to learn, I knew, but they had come from the Shire, the Land of Smiles and Flowers and Sunshine. They’d get a few hard lessons out here on the road, of that I had no doubt.

**IV: The Long Road, the High Road**

_October 1_

            I walked into the stables at first light, moving through the stalls, clucking at horses who whickered softly and lifted their heads at my passing, until finally I reached Melisand. The grey courser was wide awake, sticking his nose out for a pat and sniffing at my shirt in hopes of an apple.

            “Not now, boy,” I whispered, reaching for the latch to his stall and taking his halter into my hand.

            “Miss?” one of the stablehands had stirred in the hayloft, poking his head down drowsily. He looked to be one of the brothers. I looked up, somewhat startled to see him. His brother was snoring sprawled-out over the hay, and the young one was curled up under Hereric’s arm, his thumb in his mouth.

            “It’s time for me to go,” I said softly, by way of explanation. I led Melisand out of his stall and closed it behind him.

            “Do you need him saddled, miss?” the boy asked, covering a wide yawn with his hand. “I’ll saddle him if you need.”

            “That won’t be necessary,” I murmured, looking at Melisand, and then unhooking his halter. He whickered as his dark grey forelock fell over his forehead. “Keep the saddle.”

            “Keep it ‘til you return, miss?”

            “No,” I said, hanging the halter on one of the hooks. “I shan’t be returning. Not for a long while, at least. Keep the saddle. I daresay you boys barely have enough to go around.” I patted Melisand on the flank. “Off you go. Home, Melisand. Home.”

            The horse began to walk from the stables, and I watched as he turned out of the doors and broke into a canter, bearing down the street until he disappeared into the morning mists, out of sight.

            “We can’t take the saddle, miss. Not without payment.”

            “It won’t be necessary,” I repeated, turning back to watch the boy climbing from the hayloft.

            “Surely there must be something, miss.”

            I paused. Then, I strode to the boy, thoughtful. “There may be.”

            He showed me to a stall at the end of the stables when I had voiced my request, one I had previously thought empty. “He’s not the youngest of creatures, but he’s clever and he’s sturdy.”

            “He’ll do,” I said, and the boy opened up the stall, clucking to the pony to bring him plodding out into the stable main. He handed me the halter, beaming. “He’s all yours, miss. We’ll take care of the saddle.”

            “And I’ll take care of your Bill,” I said, and I patted the beast of burden on the head and brought him out into the chill autumn air.

            “I brought you a pony,” I said to the nearest hobbit, who happened to be Sam, handing him the halter. “He can carry some of your provisions, I daresay.”

            “Melisand would have done just fine,” Strider told me, irritated at our delays. Were it him, he would have been stepping out of the gates by now.

            “Melisand is a courser, I would remind you, not a pack pony. Are we nearly ready?”

            “Almost. We’re waiting on Pippin and Merry.”

            “The troublemakers,” I murmured, huffing with laughter. “I’ll go find them.”

            I found them inside, shrinking away on the stairwell as a large dog growled at them. I strode swiftly over and gave the hound a push. Whimpering, he sidled away, staring defiantly back at me. I shook my head, and turned to the two young hobbits. “You needn’t worry about them. Though, I do suppose they’re a bit bigger to you.” The hound looked pleadingly at me, and I shushed him away with a disapproving look. “Off with you. Go bother someone your own size.”

            As the hound slunk away, I turned back to the two hobbits. “I hope you’re prepared to go. My brother gets a bit wroth when we get off of his master schedule.”

            “Are we leaving the gates?” Pippin asked.

            “I heard the gatekeeper was ridden down last night,” Merry chipped in.

            “I don’t happen to know the truth of the matter, myself,” I answered, stepping over a passed-out drunkard. “We won’t be finding out, though. The Black Riders rode in the West Gate last night; we’ll be taking the South Gate.”

            “Where are we going?”

            “Out the South Gate, I just told you.”

            “No, where are you _taking_ us?”

            “You ask a lot of questions,” I told them as we came outside. I nodded to Strider, crossing the yard to stand by him. “I think we’re ready.” I turned to the hobbits. “Everyone had better be ready, because we’re leaving now.” Too much more time and the sun would be up before we ever got going, and that would have Strider grumpy the rest of the day. Presently, I was not in the mood to deal with his moods, so I made quick work in ushering four hobbits and a pony out towards the gate.

            Watching them go, I was suddenly overwhelmed with uncharacteristic doubt. Turning to Strider, I whispered, “ _Otoro_ …you do know that if he carries what we think he carries…”

            “There _is_ no if,” Strider broke in. “We know he does.”

            I was silent for a long moment. “We’re all in danger,” I murmured. “Every one of us.”

            “Since when has that been missing from the job description?” he asked me, starting down the road after the shrinking halflings. I stood back a moment, waiting a moment before I took the first step of what I would later know as the longest journey in my life.

            “There you go making sense again,” I sighed, at last beginning the long road east. “Damn you.”

            As soon as we left the South Gates, Strider took us off the road and into the woods. There was snow on the ground, likely a product of last night’s rain. The air had a sharpness to it, and the sounds of our footfalls were interrupted only by the occasional birdcall. As we began to trudge up a particularly steep slope, weaving around trees and slippery drifts so not to lose our footing, I noticed that the hobbits were plodding along behind us in a small pack. When I glanced back at them they all quickly averted their eyes. A few minutes later, Frodo asked a question. “Where are you taking us?”

            “Up a slope,” I said.

            “Into the wild,” was Strider’s gruff reply. Apparently, my efforts to stave off his bad moods had been for naught. He paused to peer at the moss on a tree, look up and sniff at the air, before he continued on. Behind us, one of the hobbits- Merry, if I recalled correctly- muttered under his breath to one of the others. “How do we know these people are friends of Gandalf?”

            “I think that servants of the enemy would look fairer and feel fouler,” was Frodo’s hushed reply.

            “He’s foul enough,” Merry fumed. I snorted, affording a _what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you_ look from Strider. The hobbits had paused in their conversation, and I knew without looking that they would be eyeing me warily.

            _Any servants of the enemy would be able to hear you,_ I thought of saying, but Frodo whispered, “We have no choice but to trust them,” and the conversation was over.

            The poor lads had a lot to learn, I knew, but they had come from the Shire, the Land of Smiles and Flowers and Sunshine. They’d get a few hard lessons out here on the road, of that I had no doubt.

            But those were lessons to be learned by one’s own experience. So I kept my tongue, and followed Strider as he walked into the trees and took a faintly familiar path as the trees around us thinned and the ground grew wetter.


	7. V: Dread Marshes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You killed them,” Frodo spoke, looking at me. “The highwaymen.”
> 
> I saw no use in lying to him. “I did. I shot them all and dragged them out to the water. The spiders will make a meal of them tonight.”
> 
> All of the hobbits seemed horrified, but I shrugged. “They were highway robbers. One of them was wearing a lady’s ring. Another had likely taken his bracers from someone’s grave. You’ve left the Shire, boys. Life in the wild is simpler, but it plays by the same set of rules. Only the strong survive in this world, and the strong walk alone.”

**V: Dread Marshes**

_October 2_

            I was catching the familiar stink of bog by midday. Strider paused and I caught up with him; the Bree-folk hadn’t dubbed him Longshanks for nothing.

            “You plan to lead us through the Midgewater Marshes?” I asked him, already knowing and fearing the answer.

            “I want to keep off of the road and out of sight of the Forsaken Inn,” he replied. “You saw what happened at the Pony. I don’t want it to happen again. The Eglain are shrewder and less trusting than the Bree-landers. We’re staying off of the Annunlos Road and we’re taking the Midgewater Pass.”

            “There’s an entire company of orcs camped out there, we can’t just waltz right down the ridge.”

            “The camp is staged further down the pass than we need to go. We’ll cross the river and move south before they can even smell us.”

            “Then what?” I questioned, crossing my arms for warmth. “Do we take the road, then? The hills are swarming with half-orc bandits, and I heard they’re carrying crossbows. Dywen learned that the hard way a few weeks past. They buried the poor chap near Ost Guruth, I heard.”

            Strider thought hard, and said, “We may be able to take the road, for a while at least.”

            “We might have to, down by Talath Gaun,” I went on. “There’s spiders on one side and Earth-kin on the other, and their allegiances are clear as mud these days. There’s no way to know which tribe is which, and who they’ve sworn to. As long as we stay clear of Harloeg, and the Eglain watchtower near Nan Dhelu, we should be able to make it to the Last Bridge into the ‘Shaws. From there it’s smooth sailing.”

            “We’ll figure out which way once we’re past Weathertop,” he decided, and turned back to see what was holding our charges up.

            The hobbits had paused, and were busy unloading various pots and pans from Bill’s packs. I exhaled quickly, knowing that they were already pushing Strider’s nerves.

            “Gentlemen,” he called at them, “we do not stop ‘til nightfall.”

            “What about breakfast?” Pippin stood, squinting against the harsh grey light that crept through the clouds.

            “You’ve already had it,” said Strider.

            “We’ve had _one_ , yes,” Pippin spoke sagely, catching up the uninformed on the various rituals of hobbit dining. “What about second breakfast?”

            Strider, sighing near-disgustedly, turned away and continued on.

            “I don’t think he knows about second breakfast, Pip,” whispered Merry, beginning to walk on.

            “What about elevenses?” the younger hobbit questioned anxiously, following. “Luncheon? Afternoon tea? Dinner? Supper?” Merry came in for a halt and looked to his cousin. “He knows about those, doesn’t he?”

            Merry looked to me, and I quirked an eyebrow.

            “I wouldn’t count on it, Pip,” he said.

            Just then, an apple flew over the undergrowth and into his hands. He handed it over, patting the other on the shoulder and walking on. Pippin looked bewilderedly down at it before a second arced through the air and hit him on the head, and an annoyed “Pippin!” sounded from ahead.

            We hit the marshes around noontime. The infamous smell of bog wove through the trees, curling tendrils around us. The sun would’ve been high in the sky, if it had been visible, when the trees had broken and I had looked down upon bog and pool.

            “The Midgewater Marshes,” I announced to our charges. “The most disgusting, despicable route in the Bree-lands, but also one of the more historic hubs. After you.”

            My boots were so travel-stained that they didn’t seem to mind the muddy water. It was cold and miserable and wet, and a fog limited our vision to thirty feet ahead at best. Before long the gnats began to attack as well, swarming specially around the hobbits. “What do they eat when they can’t get hobbit?” asked Merry disgustedly, swatting at the cloud of midge-flies whizzing around him. Pippin stumbled headfirst into the water, and I hooked my hands under his arms and hauled him upright again.

            “Strider,” I called ahead. He paused, looking back at me, and I loped up to speak with him in private council. “Look ahead. Towards the north.”

            A faint glow permeated the area through the mists, and through the smell of death and decay there was a faint whiff of smoke.

            “Bandits, I’d wager,” I muttered. “I could scout ahead if you’d like. Dark is falling, and if they’re friendly they might share their campsite.”

            “And if they’re not?”

            “I’m armed. Stay with the hobbits, and try not to frighten them.”

            With that, I crept off through the mists and moved towards the campsite, keeping to the brief intermissions of land so as not to make a sound. The crackling of the fire became audible, and eventually the low thrum of voices reached my ears as well. Someone was strumming on a lute and singing “ _Fair Maids of Summerhall_ ” in a deep gravelly voice, and others were murmuring as well. I paused, crept closer, trying to discern the individuals.

            The singer was a middle-aged man with golden armbands graven in old runes, the first clue to his identity. Also by the fire were two youths within fifteen years, one with a rather fine cloak and the other with a golden ring set with a large garnet. The third was a young man, little more than twenty, tapping on a tambourine and humming along to the chords, and the last one looked perhaps thirty, a dark handsome man who had an embroidered doublet and a red silk scarf he wore around his waist.

            I freed my bow and reached back for an arrow, nocking it the string and drawing it back. I surveyed the five, selected a target, and aimed.

            The ring-wearer choked when the arrow hit him, and slid backwards off of his log. The others gasped, the song stuttered away, and quickly all of the men rose and groped for weapons, shouting.

            The one with the fine doublet went down next, with a half-hearted cry. The tambourine player twisted with impact and fell, instrument rattling as it struck the ground. The young man with the velvet cloak tried to jerk the arrow out of his stomach and the shaft broke, and he stared at the blood before his eyes rolled back into his head and he fell. The lute player ripped out his sword and looked around into the fog, head whipping wildly. “Stand and face me, you craven bastards!”

            “Afraid to disappoint,” I said, stepping into the firelight. “It’s just me.” The arrow went straight through his eye.

            I reclaimed all of my arrows, save the one that had broken, and dragged the bodies out of the way and into the water. I tossed most of their belongings out there with them, though I paused when I saw the lute.

            “Hmm,” I murmured, admiring the smooth wood. “Fine craftsmanship. The poor bastard you took this off of, I wonder where he came from?”

            A few moments later, I walked back through the fog and came upon Strider and the hobbits, waiting right where I had left them. “Highwaymen,” I said, by way of explanation, motioning them towards the fire.

            “Did you chase them off?” Sam asked as he led Bill to an old root and began to hobble him.

            “In a fashion,” I replied, unslinging my quiver and laying it by my feet. The peat fire threw a dim red glow over us, and I found a bit of kindling to add before I sat.

            “I saw deer,” Strider said. “I’m going to hunt.”

            “I’ll be on my guard,” I said, and watched his back disappear into the mists.

            There was a sudden clicking nearby, and the hobbits jumped. “What’s that sound?” Pippin whispered.

            “Just the spiders,” I said. “They’re feeding. Don’t worry, they’ll leave us be.”

            “You killed them,” Frodo spoke, looking at me. “The highwaymen.”

            I saw no use in lying to him. “I did. I shot them all and dragged them out to the water. The spiders will make a meal of them tonight.”

            All of the hobbits seemed horrified, but I shrugged. “They were highway robbers. One of them was wearing a lady’s ring. Another had likely taken his bracers from someone’s grave. You’ve left the Shire, boys. Life in the wild is simpler, but it plays by the same set of rules. Only the strong survive in this world, and the strong walk alone.”

            I picked up the lute, plucked at the strings. I was a bit rusty on the notes, but once I had spent a few more minutes strumming and sliding my fingers along the fibers it all came back to me.

            I launched into the first song that came to my mind.

_Oh, I knew of a minstrel_

_Who wandered the lands,_

_With a lute carved out of rough wood._

_They said it was bland,_

_A regular sort,_

_With strings strung of flax-stalks and hay._

_Yet one day he came,_

_With his rough-carven lute,_

_With its chinks and its scratches and splinters,_

_But he played so sweetly that night at the inn_

_That the men hearing begged for his secret._

_“I’ve been to the Golden Wood,” he said,_

_“Where the Lady of Light watches all._

_She asked me I play her a song, you see,_

_And I played her the ode of the Fall._

_So enthralled she was with my singing,_

_She gave me a set of new strings for my lute._

_Five hairs from her very own head, you see,_

_And it plays now like harps of the gods.”_

_And he left the town the very next morn_

_To travel along the old road._

_And again he stopped in another old inn_

_To play his old lute and a song._

_The men thought, “Oh, surely_

_His strings are of silver_

_Or mithril, or diamond, or gold.”_

_And many a man asked for the buying price_

_But the minstrel refused them all._

_And along the roads the minstrel walked_

_With his rough-carven lute of infamy._

_And many came from far around_

_To hear the minstrel’s singing._

_Until one day he walked a road_

_That went away west to the mountains,_

_And the minstrel of the silver tongue_

_Was never seen more in the northlands, no,_

_The minstrel with the silver tongue_

_Was never seen more in the northlands._

            When the last strains of the melody faded away, I swung the lute off of my lap and set it down on the ground next to my quiver.

            The hobbits all looked at me, with questions in their eyes. “Who was the minstrel?” Pippin asked first.

            “I knew him once,” I said. “His name was Talagan, though he earned the name Silvertongue from his travels on the road. When he was a young _ellon_ , perhaps only a few centuries old, he took his rough-hewn lute and traveled the roads of Middle-Earth, singing for those who would listen. Eventually, his travels took him to the eaves of _Lothlórien_ , the Golden Wood in the common tongue. Lady Galadriel gave to him five of her hairs as strings to his new instrument, and whenever he played thereafter, it was the sweetest melody that any who listened could remember hearing. Until one day, he disappeared. Vanished from the road and was never seen again.”

            “What happened to him?” asked Merry.

            “His father Teleryn was Master of Edhelion. One day, he grew weary of this world and left for the grey ships in the harbor. Talagan returned to take his father’s place. He was my weaponsmaster, when I was young. I was to marry his nephew and become the next Lady of Edhelion.”

            “What happened?” Sam questioned, in a tiny voice.

            I watched the fire for a while. “Life. It’s what happens when you make other plans.”

            A few minutes later, a sloshing in the murk announced Strider’s return. He came into view a few moments later, a young hart slung over his shoulders.

            I shifted to allow him to drop the kill, and I let him get to work butchering the animal. The hobbits shifted uneasily and grimaced, and I looked to them and suggested, “Why don’t you go find a few sticks? We can roast it on a spit if you can build one. Don’t leave the firelight.”

            They moved off quickly, and I stayed there, poking at the crackling flames and kindling to throw sparks and stoke the fire up again.

            “There were plenty of deer,” he said to me, once they had cleared off.

            “Well, now that Skunkwood’s wolfhounds aren’t here to eat them all off, I suppose that the population would have bounced back.” I knelt down beside him, sighing softly. “This place never changes. No matter how many times I pass through there’s always death hanging in the air.”

            “I understand,” Strider murmured, as I rested my head on his shoulder. “We’ll be gone from here tomorrow. Take heart.” He kissed my temple just as the hobbits reappeared, though when they saw us Merry and Frodo halted so suddenly that Sam and Pippin bumped into them.

            I straightened up, gesturing at the fire. “Go on,” I told them, and I must have sounded tired, because Sam brought me the first portion of venison that was cooked.

            When I had eaten my eyelids began to feel like they were weighted down with lead, and after three or four yawns, Strider put his hand on my shoulder and said, “You sleep. I’ll take first watch.” I would have argued it, but when I opened my mouth all that came out was another yawn. I knew then I could have pushed back on it all I liked, but there would be no changing my brother’s mind.

            I unclasped my cloak and folded it into a bundle I could rest my head on. I curled up tightly to try and conserve warmth, and despite being cold and achy I fell asleep in a matter of moments.


	8. VI: Shadows in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “These are for you,” Strider said as he unwrapped a small bundle he had taken from Bill’s back. The tattered cloth, when parted, revealed four small scabbards, somewhat worn but still functional. “Keep them close. We’re going to have a look around.”
> 
> Merry examined his blade, pulling it halfway out and staring at it, peering hard.
> 
> “Never leave it behind,” I told them, as I got to my feet and checked Bill’s halter for security. “Take it wherever you go, hold it close to your heart, as any lover. The blade is an extension of your arm, a sharp one. Having one is an advantage anywhere in this world.”

**VI: Shadows in the Night**

_October 3_

            Somehow, I knew I was dreaming when I opened my eyes. First, I was lying in a warm feather bed that I had most definitely not gone to sleep in. I sat up, rubbing my eyes and taking a look about my surroundings.

            Pale curtains fluttered about the door to the balcony, bright moonlight shining through. Part of me itched to go out and stand on that parapet, and look up at the moon and the stars for hours like I had done as a child. But my eyes swept away from there and looked to the other things in the room: the high ebon bookshelf housing old tomes and literary works of art alike, the tapestry on the wall that bore a galloping white horse on a field of some dark color that had been turned to black in the night. The floors looked to be made of stone, but the blankets tucked carefully around me were soft and blue, the edges trimmed in silver thread. Frowning, I sat up slowly, realizing my clothes had disappeared and left me naked under the coverlet.

            The door opened just then and a figure stepped inside. In the dark I couldn’t see his face, but I took in his form silently as he shut the door behind him. He was tall and powerful, had hair long enough to spill over his shoulders. There was no face to him, no coloring or characteristics. It had all been turned to black in the night.

            Even as he drew close I couldn’t see anything that may have identified or distinguished him from any other fellow. He was a mystery man, a shadow who had come to visit me in the night.

            I began to speak, but he hushed me by tracing his thumb over my cheek. His chest was bare and he wore a pair of loose, dark trousers, with the laces half undone. He kissed my cheek, and then he gently pushed me down onto the bed, his head dipping into the crook of my neck to brush his lips there. I felt the rasp of a beard and my breath quickened. “Who are you?” I asked him, but my shadow lover was silent as he pulled the covers away to cover one soft breast with a calloused hand.

            He kissed my stomach and stroked his fingers across the downy curls between my thighs, letting his hand move lazily down and test the wetness there. Suddenly, he climbed over me, unlacing his breeches and pushing them down over his thighs, moving one knee at a time to kick them off. He thrust into me, not ungently but urgently, and I tilted my head back and keened softly as he took his pleasure from me. I came with the skin of my neck between his teeth and a nipple pinched between his fingertips.

            Moments later, my eyes opened and the grey sky was above me.

            “Hunh?” I struggled to sit up, fighting my eyelids as they tried to close again. The hobbits were sitting around a small fire, eating some of the hart that Strider had shot the night before.

            “Good morning,” Pippin said brightly at me, even though a quick peek into the murky marsh water proved that I looked like hell. “There’s plenty of breakfast.”

            “Yippee,” I muttered, splashing some of the brackish water onto my face and wiping off the mud and the algae with my sleeve. “Where’s my brother?”

            “Off scouting,” Sam told me. “Would you like some of the venison, Miss Gléoláf? I’ve cooked it over the fire.”

            “I’m all right, you have it,” I said, getting to my feet and picking up my cloak, dusting it off and swinging it back over my shoulders. “I’m not hungry.”

            The hobbits needed no more convincing than that, and quickly passed the meat amongst themselves. It was true, I wasn’t very hungry at all, not with the stone pit that had sunken into my stomach. I felt my neck pulse in memory and reached up to rub the side, checking my fingers to see if I’d come away with blood. Frowning, I knelt again to inspect it in the water, though I couldn’t see very well if there were any marks.

            “What’s wrong?” Merry inquired, and I stood up quickly. “Nothing. Just thought I saw something.”

            “There’s nothing there,” Frodo told me quietly, as he always seemed to speak, and returned to his food. Thoroughly bewildered now, I shouldered into my quiver and strapped my lute to the side, standing at the edge of the campsite and waiting for Strider’s return.

            When he came back, the hobbits had packed their things and were ready to set out. The funny little hardy fellows had adapted quickly to the situation, and even Strider seemed impressed when he saw them.

            As we set out in silence in the grey dawn, I looked at him and asked quietly, “Do you ever dream?”

            He looked at me curiously. “Sometimes. Why?”

            “What do you dream of?”

            He stared ahead, inhaled deeply, sighed. “My mother. Home. Arwen. Hell, one time I dreamed that a duck came to tell me that it was my destiny to become king of the goats. Why do you ask?”

            “Well…” my hand rested habitually on my sword hilt. “Do you ever have dreams that feel…real?”

            He thought for a long time, and finally he shook his head. “Not that I ever remember.”

            I shrugged. “I was just curious.”

            I relaxed when we left the marshes. The ground hardened beneath our feet, and the few trees we came upon were gnarled and black. The air was still cold, but it was different from the marsh air, much drier. The grass grew scrubby and hard under our feet, and I marveled once again at how tough hobbit-feet were, that they could walk over this terrain without trouble.

            As night fell, we came upon a familiar shape that had grown slowly as we had walked on and on through the day. Now it stood over us like a colossus in the falling dark, crumbling battlements and rugged slopes rising high away into the sky.

            “This was the great watchtower of Amon Sûl,” said Strider, made somewhat quiet and reverent in the shadow of the monument. “We shall rest here tonight.”

            We began to climb the slopes, mercifully quiet. I had found far-ranging goblins here in days past, but they must have left with their kin in the Midgewater when we had chased them out. We found a small hollow out of the way, and it was there that we came to a stop.

            “These are for you,” Strider said as he unwrapped a small bundle he had taken from Bill’s back. The tattered cloth, when parted, revealed four small scabbards, somewhat worn but still functional. “Keep them close. We’re going to have a look around.”

            Merry examined his blade, pulling it halfway out and staring at it, peering hard.

            “Never leave it behind,” I told them, as I got to my feet and checked Bill’s halter for security. “Take it wherever you go, hold it close to your heart, as any lover. The blade is an extension of your arm, a sharp one. Having one is an advantage anywhere in this world.”

            I turned and left them alone, moving up the slope to catch up with my long-legged brother.

            “They look old,” I said. “Where did you find them?”

            “In a tomb,” he replied, “in the Barrow-downs. They’re daggers that probably belonged to some Cardolani warriors all those ages past, but they’re in good shape, being as old as they are. And they happen to be just the right size for them.”

            “If we’re truly fortunate, they might still have those charms against the undead.” I sighed. “We never seem to be truly fortunate, though, do we?”

            “Us poor unfortunate souls,” he said, grinning.

            “We few,” I chimed in, “we happy few!”

            “We band of brothers,” he added, his smile softening.

“We wretched ruins of a magnificent empire.” I sighed, shaking my head. “Damn you, I was trying to be discouraged.”

            “Well, as your chieftain, I command you to be cheerful.”

            “Cheerful?” I looked at him sideways, incredulous. “Since when have I ever been cheerful?”

            “You came awfully close just now,” he told me.

            “Well,” I huffed. “You always had an irritating habit of giving the illusion that I’m in a cheerful mood. I’m afraid it persisted out of your childhood.”

            “Hm,” he shrugged. “Well…some others have told me I only ever smile when I’m with Arwen…or you.”

            “It’s no secret you love your women,” I snorted, rolling my eyes.

            “Not at all,” he conceded, linking an arm around my shoulders.

            “Have you decided on our course of action?” I asked him, inclining my head to level our eyes.

            “When the morning comes, we’ll turn off onto the main road and press on that way until we hit the Last Bridge. Ost Guruth isn’t too close to the path, is it?” I shook my head. He nodded. “Good. Once we move into the Trollshaws we’ll swing out into the woods and make our way to the valley.”

            “We might make it in…what, six days?” I squinted, trying to calculate the times. “Yes, six days sounds about right. That’s what Sam was saying earlier, and I think he might actually be right. I tell you…they’re such remarkable little creatures, you need only give them a day or two and already they’ve adapted to the situation. Anything you throw at them, it never keeps them down.” I smiled. “We could learn from those hobbits, I’d think.”

            We came up into the ring of stone around the top. I could see for miles in the dark, the skies finally clear. Far and away in the east, the river spun in a ribbon over the land. On the far bank, trees sprang up thick and lush. The elvish part in me was instantly there, strolling through the woods and tracing my hands across the leaves, treading barefoot across the mossy ground.

            The mortal part couldn’t help a bit of anxiety. I turned away and returned to the present, atop this old place. It might’ve once been the room where they had kept the palantír, before it had fallen to the Witch-King. These Lone-lands had been a part of the kingdom of Rhudaur in the elder days, one of the three sovereign nations that had sprung up when Arnor had fallen. Now, only this old ruin stood to remind us of the might of Mordor and its vassals.

            Now, I feared that we wouldn’t need any reminders of the Dark Lord’s strength. I had a fear that we would soon be seeing him come again, and it was not a fear I could easily quash. Then, the tales we told would be in hushed nervous voices, news of the front lines, horror stories of what stronghold had recently fallen.

            I hadn’t realized I had been zoning out until Strider came back, bearing two torches. He handed one to me, raising one eyebrow. “What were you doing?”

            I sighed heavily. “Fretting. Fretting like a maid on her wedding night. Just being here…thinking…” I shook my head. “Frodo is carrying the one thing that Sauron would need to return to his full power. To his bodily form. What would we do then? What did Gandalf ever mean by taking it to Rivendell, why would he want to bring this upon Lord Elrond? Why…” I trailed off, sighing helplessly. “It’s impossible trying to muddle through the inner workings of his mind, and this night seems darker than all the rest, for whatever reason.”

            Strider looked around, and he seemed similarly disturbed. “Let’s check the other slope and go back. There may yet be brigands or goblins lurking about.”

            We moved down the other side, treading carefully on the steep ledges.

            “Lord Elrond is a very wise and very powerful elf,” Strider said to me after a few moments, when he saw that I was still worried. “I’m sure that Gandalf is looking for his assistance in the matter, nothing more.”

            “Nothing more,” I scoffed without meaning to. “There’s always more.”

            Just then, I froze. “Wait, shh, shh…” I listened. “Did you hear that?”

            “Hear what?” asked Strider, frowning and turning back around to face me, torchlight and shadow shifting. I craned my neck, straining for a sound. All I could pick up were the peaceful chirps of the crickets.

            “Nothing, I’d…I’d thought I’d heard something. Voices.”

            Then, there was a bloodcurdling shriek. As soon as it reached me a shiver went straight up my spine and down over my arms. I shuddered, my eyes growing wide as the adrenaline poured into my bloodstream.

            “Nazgûl.”

            We both ran as fast as we could up the slopes, fighting the steep ridges and the lack of footholds, trying to reach the top again. _Would they have run, or stayed put? Béma, which would protect them? Or would either even save them?_ I pushed ahead, torch still burning, but as we drew closer to the summit I heard Sam’s cry. “Back, you devils!” there was a _thud_ and a _clang_ moments later. Two more metallic _clanks_. My heart raced. _Oh Béma please, don’t let us be too late, don’t let us be…_

            Strider and I burst over the ridge, swords in one hand and torches in the other. The wraiths screeched, backing away. I rushed one and traded blows with him, swinging the burning pitch at him and screaming bloody murder until he began to back off. The next flew at me like a bat out of hell, and I slashed a ribbon off his black cloak and jabbed the torch at him. A spark caught and he began to scream, stumbling away like I had run him through, the fire racing along the old dry folds of his dark, foul-smelling garb.

            The third wraith received a parting gift from me- my throw landed perfectly and swept across the black raiment he wore over the figure I could only guess at what looked like. Caterwauling, he turned and staggered along, waving his arms in front of him like he was groping the air for something. Then, he was tipping over the edge and falling.

            _Why do they fear fire?_ I wondered, picking up my torch and scanning the peak of the old watchtower. _All fire casts shadows._

Then again, the Nine were hardly mere shadows that a light had birthed.

            I realized, someone was crying in pain. I turned about, searching for the source. Strider had escaped unscathed, though he had lost his torch somewhere along the way. Merry and Pippin looked shaken, but well, and Sam was bent concernedly over a vertical Frodo.

            “What the hell’s happened?” I hissed, crossing the courtyard and holding the torch aloft. Strider searched around, and snatched something up from the ground. My throat tightened and I squeezed my eyes shut, turning away as soon as I saw it.

            “He’s been stabbed by a Morgul-blade,” Strider told them matter-of-factly, dropping the hilt hurriedly as the blade crumbled away into dust. “This is beyond my skill to heal. He needs elvish medicine.” He hoisted the curly-headed hobbit up over his shoulder as he writhed with spasms of pain.

            “But we’re six _days_ from Rivendell,” Sam fretted, following after us, “He’ll never make it!”

            “Merry, Pippin, get the pony,” I murmured, shooing the hobbits off. “Strider! Hold up a moment, wait.”

            He paused, and I leaned my head in to whisper, “You saw Amdir, he was still able to talk to us, still coherent. It was weeks before he made the transformation, and he could speak the whole time…this isn’t like that. This isn’t right.”

            “Amdir didn’t get as powerful a blade,” Strider hissed, and left me there with my brows drawing together.

            _It couldn’t have been…_ I shook my head and hurried on, my heart hammering, my mind wheeling as I tried to think of how we would ever make it. Merry and Pippin came behind me with Bill and we rushed down the slopes, Frodo moaning incoherently on Strider’s shoulder and crying, “Gandalf!”

            “Hold on, Frodo,” I breathed, catching up to my brother and jamming my torch into his hands. “What the hell happened to yours?”

            “It got lodged in one of their hoods,” he whispered back at me, taking the flaming torch and leading the gaggle of halflings away into the dark.

            “One of the hoods,” I hissed. “Of course.” I followed them down.


	9. VII: Rise, River Loudwater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you want him,” I called to him, pulling my sword out and raising it high into the air, “Come and claim him!”
> 
> A part of me remembered. If they get their hands on it it’s curtains for all of us. For the world even, all the people are doomed. I could only buy some time for us. Of their own accord, the fingers of my left hand crept into Frodo’s front pocket, and closed around something cool and round. At once he jerked, wheezing at me. “Easy, lad,” I murmured, holding my hand out over the rushing waters. “It’s been a good few days, I’d have you know.”
> 
> Frodo only groaned.

**VII: Rise, River Loudwater**

_October 9_

            Six days had been a bad estimate.

            Perhaps bad wasn’t the right word. Optimistic suited the whole situation better, because six days with minimal rest saw us halting under the stone statues of the trolls I had heard named once as Tom, Bert, and William.

            “Look, Frodo,” Sam spoke to the fading hobbit, as his eyes went deathly bright blue and his hoarse cries grew weaker. “It’s Mr. Bilbo’s trolls.” There was no answer, not even a groan. “Frodo?”

            He turned his head up to Strider, lifting his torch and eyeing our surroundings. “He’s going cold!”

            “He’s passing into the shadow world,” I said numbly, memories flooding me of a man who had pulled his blade on me. No, he hadn’t been a man anymore. _Here it begins,_ he had said.

            _No,_ I’d told him, shaking my head sadly. _Here it ends._

“He’ll soon be a wraith like them.”

            A wail sounded, echoing in the trees. “They’re close,” hissed Merry.

            “Is he going to die?” asked Pippin, sounding small.

            Strider turned to Sam, still kneeling over his dying companion. “Sam, do you know the athelas plant?”

            “Athelas?” asked Sam, moving closer.

            “Kingsfoil,” I supplied.

            “Kingsfoil?” frowned Sam. “Aye, it’s a weed.”

            “It may help to slow the poison,” my brother told him, and in moments the two had dispersed into the forest to search in the undergrowth.

            I sat down with some difficulty by Frodo, cold as a stone and the faint rise and fall of his chest the only sign he was alive.

            “Don’t let go of this, Frodo,” I said suddenly, placing my hand against the frigid of his cheek. “I’m telling you now. Don’t. Let. Go. I know you can still hear me, somewhere in there.”

            A sudden sound caught my attention, and I stood, unsheathing my sword with a ring.

            “Who’s there?” Pippin whispered, trembling.

            A faint white glow preceded the newcomer. When he emerged I could have sagged dead away with the intensity of the sheer relief that coursed through me. “Glorfindel. You _scared_ me, _mellonin.”_

“Rest assured I didn’t mean to,” he said, pushing past me to examine Frodo. The hobbit seemed to inhale a rattling breath, and then his struggles resumed, though fainter than ever. “He’s fading fast. We have to get him to Lord Elrond.” Behind him, Asfaloth whickered in agreement. The white courser gave off a soft glow in the moonlight, giving him an ethereal look in the night.

            “I’ve been looking for you for two days,” he told me, as he lifted the hobbit up and sat him in front of Asfaloth’s saddle. “Melisand turned up and your uncle was a tad unsettled when your horse returned without you. Riders were dispatched, your cousins are looking down in the south and there’s a party in the northern passes right now.”

            “He’s got a few hours in him at best,” I said, gesturing to Frodo. “I hope Asfaloth is ready to run.”

            “He will be,” Glorfindel said, eyeing my charges and leaning in close. “Listen, there are five wraiths behind you. Where the other four are, I don’t know. Likely they’ll break off and follow me when I take him, so you just focus on getting these others to Rivendell Valley.”

            “Glorfindel-”

            “Oh thank heavens,” I heard Strider breathe, as he pushed back into the clearing, clutching a few stems with tiny purple blooms. He chewed up some of the athelas leaves and pressed them to Frodo’s wound, right in the shoulder where the blade had stuck him. Instantly he stiffened and sucked in a rattling breath. He was still fighting, but his strength was failing him. “Stay with Gléoláf,” he said, looking to us both. “Keep her safe. I’ll ride with him to Rivendell.”

            “Estel, you know I’m the faster rider,” Glorfindel cut in. “Don’t think to argue with me, you know it to be true. I’ll send horses for you when I arrive.”

            “I want someone of your capability protecting her, and them,” Strider cut in, adding almost as an afterthought. “ _Please._ ”

            “He won’t make it unless I make a full gallop to the valley.”

            I glanced at the hobbits, at Frodo, at the two standing there quarreling like the men that they were, and finally at Asfaloth. The horse eyed me, and pawed the ground once. I moved behind Glorfindel and seized the saddle horn, hoisting myself up and snatching the reins. Glorfindel and Strider froze and whirled around as I began to wheel Asfaloth east.

            “I’ll have horses sent to you,” I told them, “And if you don’t see them, fear the worst.” Strider made a grab for the reins but I dug my heels into Asfaloth’s sides and the pale grey courser was off like a rocket in the gloom of the night.

_October 10_

            I thanked the heavens at least eighty times for the durability of elvish steeds, as Asfaloth carried me on into the light of day.

            “On, Asfaloth, on, _noro lim!_ ” I cried, bending low over his neck and urging him on. The dreaded screech chilled my bones and I turned my head to look behind me, fearing what I’d see there.

            As I watched, all nine fell in behind me and began to close the gap. Fear closed over my throat. My voice was gone, but my weight, my legs, and my hands remained. I shifted forward into the saddle, snapped the reins and loosened my grip, giving the stallion his head. One good kick in his sides sent us speeding ahead and over a log with a mighty leap. A tree branch whipped at my cheek and left a smarting cut there.

            And then we broke through the trees, slid down the banks and trotted into the water. Frodo was nodding in front of me, almost as if he was drifting off to sleep. Asfaloth’s sides heaved under me, as he sucked desperately at the air.

            The Nazgûl halted on the opposite bank, screeching their displeasure. The one in the forefront pulled his horse along the bank and hissed at me, in a voice that crept up my spine: “Give up the halfling, woman!”

            “If you want him,” I called to him, pulling my sword out and raising it high into the air, “Come and claim him!”

            A part of me remembered. _If they get their hands on it it’s curtains for all of us. For the world even, all the people are doomed._ I could only buy some time for us. Of their own accord, the fingers of my left hand crept into Frodo’s front pocket, and closed around something cool and round. At once he jerked, wheezing at me. “Easy, lad,” I murmured, holding my hand out over the rushing waters. “It’s been a good few days, I’d have you know.”

            Frodo only groaned.

            At first, the twisted black mounts of the riders reared and shied at the water, but after a few kicks from their ironshod feet the horses (if they could be called such), began to step into the water. My hand trembled, and suddenly felt white-hot. I clenched my teeth and prepared to drop…

            A rumbling crept into my ears. I froze, turned to my right. The wraiths halted also, looking away at the thunderous roar that grew louder, louder, louder…

            Then, the white caps of a flash flood raced around the banks, lapping at the edges of the gorge and rushing straight for them. The crests of the waves turned to rearing white horses, galloping after the black riders.

            Screeching, they tried to flee, but before they could so much as turn their horses around the rushing waters overtook them, washing them away and out of sight.

            I watched them go, frozen in place. Then, I began to shiver and shake all over. The golden band was cool in my hand again, its opportunity missed. With a trembling hand I nudged open Frodo’s coat pocket and opened my palm. The ring did not drop at first, but after a moment of searing pain it fell again into its place. I stared at my palm and saw blackened flesh in the shape of a circle, burned into my palm.

            Then I retched over Asfaloth’s side, bringing up my meager rations from noontime that day and then dry-heaving a few times, before I slumped over the horse’s neck, lathered with sweat.

            Wearily, Asfaloth turned and began up the sloping paths to the High Moor, head bent over. I wasn’t in much better shape. My mind swam in darkness, in visions of horror and destruction, of Edhelion, of my mother giving blood and blood and blood so that I could have life. _She only held you a few minutes,_ my father had always told me, _but she loved you fiercely those few minutes, and she still watches over you now._

In hindsight it was a miracle that I even held on to my sword as Asfaloth walked us all home, shaking and breathing heavily. My eyelids slipped down but I forced them to stay open as the winded grey stallion took us across the moor and into the high pass that opened into the valley. The zigzags and the rocking made it near-impossible for me to stay awake, and by the time he was walking up the main way, tears were blurring my vision. I saw some various-hued shapes rushing out, voices chattering nervously in a mixture of Sindar and Westron. Frodo was borne away from me, and somebody pried the sword from my dead grip and laid me down onto my back. The sky was blue above me as a warm hand rested itself on my forehead, and some deep voice muttered an old incantation. My head began to swim; my eyelids began to droop as everything faded to black.

            _No, no!_ I began to thrash, the tears running over my cheeks, the salt stinging at my cheek. _No, not black, black like the riders, black like horror and evil and darkness and death…_ I struggled against the words, but my strength was gone, and the last of the fight was drained to me as I slumped onto the ground and gave in to the spiraling dark.


	10. VIII: Fever Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wings shadowed my fever dreams.
> 
> The dragons flapped around me, but when they landed they only revered me with silent eyes, one blue, one white, one black and one silver. It all faded into red. Some horrific creature aimed his hideous bow at me. My body jerked when the thick arrow struck me in the stomach, and I fell onto my knees retching blood.

**VIII: Fever Dreams**

_October 13_

            Howls echoed in my fever dreams.

            _Awooooo,_ howled the wolves, _awoo, awooo._ They all sat around me. I was draped in soft skins and furs, with a crown of claws on my head. _Awooooo,_ they howled at my feet.

            I floated up from the ridge where my subjects stood. _King of the Goats, King of the Goats,_ quacked a yellow duck. _That is your fate, your destiny._

 _But I can’t be, I’m already the Wolves’ Queen,_ I said, but my words were swallowed in murky marsh water as I drowned with Amdir’s menacing pale face above mine. “Here it begins,” he said, and shoved me under.

            The dark was blinding, but something soft was at my back. A warm hand pressed against my cheek and a beard scratched at my forehead as someone kissed it gently. A tender hand stroked a lock of hair from my eyes, soft as the breeze that blew in my face. A young elf stood opposite me, with long soft brown hair that fell over her back in ringlets, and eyes that I had only seen before in the mirror. _Mother,_ I gasped, reaching for her, but she shook her head with a sorrowful smile, and suddenly I was blowing away. _Go._ Her words fanned across my face like a breath of wind.

            _Aragorn!_ I screamed over the fierce howl of the blizzard. The snow stung my eyes, white-hot as the tears that rained down when the goblin slashed at the side of his head and blood sprayed out like a crimson banner over the white, white snow. He fell into my arms and I wept over him. His body changed to Grimbriar’s, frozen and stiff and dead. _I’ve failed,_ I whispered bitterly, to the others that gathered round.

The cold spun away and I was lying in my little bed in the village, the soft patchwork quilt laid over me. _Daddy,_ I called in a fretful little girl’s voice, hoarse with fever.

My father, _my father_ came through the doorway, half of his face cast in shadow by the fire in the hearth. _Now, now, dear heart,_ he scolded, though gently. _You know you mustn’t strain your voice, or you may never speak again._ He gave me my tea, sweetened to perfection, and it tasted of honey and hibiscus. _Daddy, don’t leave me,_ I choked as a blinding white light began to invade our little safe haven. My voice grew up in seconds. _Daddy, please…_

It was blinding when I opened my eyes. My throat and my lips were parched as the Harad, and when I tried to speak I only coughed. My left hand was bound up and in my head there was a great pounding. A hand offered me water and I drank gratefully, falling away into the dark as gentle fingers smoothed my hair from my eyes.

_October 17_

            Wings shadowed my fever dreams.

            The dragons flapped around me, but when they landed they only revered me with silent eyes, one blue, one white, one black and one silver. It all faded into red. Some horrific creature aimed his hideous bow at me. My body jerked when the thick arrow struck me in the stomach, and I fell onto my knees retching blood.

            I was riding Gram, the big rouncey that I had learned on. I wasn’t a little girl anymore, though, and the sorrel stallion was white and ghostly between my thighs. When I nudged him with my heels he trotted across stalks of spectral grass and waded into a river of drowning souls.

            On the opposite bank, I dismounted and there was a bright, clean glow around me. There were cherry blossoms and hyacinths, tiger lilies and roses all blooming together. A weeping willow sat over a carved white bench, and there sat a ghost.

            “Do you like the garden, _melethron?_ ” he murmured, rising onto his feet as I approached, fine silk fluttering around my ankles. “I had hoped you could find a quiet place here in the days coming,” he said, drawing close and pressing a warm hand to my belly. Something stirred inside of me, and I gasped, looking up to the face, eyes just a little too blue to be Talagan’s. “Calanon?”

            “Yes, my love?” he asked, his palm against the small of my back. Something tugged on the hem of my dress and I looked down to see a little girl with golden hair and big doe eyes. I leant down and picked her up, and suddenly I was walking down a dark stone hall, with the weight of her in my arms.

            “I think we tired them sufficiently,” said my companion, grinning. He had a boy in his grasp, head lolling on his shoulder as he slept. I could only smile back at the infectious look. We entered a quiet room and we laid the children in their beds and tucked the covers over them. The girl still had those golden locks, but she was not my own daughter anymore. I turned to leave them to sleep, but he was waiting for me. He held out his hand and I gave mine own to him, and he pressed his lips to my knuckles. “I would go riding again with you soon, Lynn. And alone. Just the two of us.”

            _As you say, my prince,_ but the words died on my lips as he kissed me.

            When I opened my eyes I was facing a different man, one with ragged brown hair to his chin. He smiled at me, kissing the tip of my nose. “We’ll hunt together, you and I. We’ll swim in the lake and ride to Bree and beyond.” He turned to the little lodge on the banks and swooped me up into his arms, grinning widely. “But this part comes first, if I recall correctly.”

            When I entered the cottage my father was inside, polishing his sword at the table. He looked at me and smiled. _Well, come here, little wolves,_ he said, and I came inside. His hair was grey as it had never gotten a chance to be, his eyes wrinkled at the corners, but his hands were steady as ever. _I’m not little anymore,_ I thought, looking at him, but something rushed past me and I watched a gaggle of wide-eyed children flood inside to sit at the floor by his feet. _Have I ever told you the story of my escape from Eastemnet?_ The children shook their heads, though somehow I _knew_ that they had heard the tale, dozens of times, and that they only wanted it again.

            _But you didn’t escape. They shot you through the eye and they brought you back, dead and cold and pale._ A single tear leaked from the corner of my eye and fell down my cheek. It stung. I opened my eyes to a dim room. Voices were murmuring.

            “-asking for her father, I don’t know what to do.”

            “Fetch Estel….give her…dreamless…longer…” something warm was on my forehead and I fell away into another dark slumber.

_October 24_

            Reality crept into my fever dreams.

            At that point I think my fever had broken and that I was only trying to regain my strength by floating in and out of consciousness. Mostly, I saw the healers. A few times I saw Arwen, sitting by me, worry shining in her steel blue eyes. When she held my hand I tried to squeeze it. My brother was in and out as well. He fell asleep once by my bedside, his head tucked under my arm. The twins came in looking tired and travel-worn, but they sat with me all the same, until the dawn was breaking high in the sky.

            I don’t recall much from those times, just the one day where _finally_ , the haze broke, and I opened my eyes and looked around, coherent.

            “She lives,” said someone by my side. My eyes moved towards the voice. “Glorfindel?” My voice sounded thick and cumbersome to my ears. He offered me some water and I took it, sitting up slowly to raise it to my lips and drink gratefully.

            “That was quite a stunt you pulled back there,” he said, as I gulped down the cup. “You’ve worried everyone sick, and to top it all off you nearly killed my horse.”

            “I’m sorry,” I said, finally resurfacing for air and setting the drained cup aside. “But with the two of you arguing like ninnies, Frodo would never have made it.” My eyes widened. “Frodo. Is he all right? How is he? What’s happened? What’ve I missed?”

            “Slow down,” he chuckled, holding a hand up for quiet, “You’ve only just woken up, I’ll get to all that in a few moments.”

            I took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet fresh scent of autumn in Rivendell. “Sorry,” I muttered again.

            “Frodo is recovering,” Glorfindel told me, passing me a hot stone mug that had steam rising from the rim. “Drink this; it’ll help you get better.” I took a cautious sip and tasted my favorite lemon and ginger tea, sweetened with honey.

            As I sipped at the tea, Glorfindel continued to recount what I had missed during my long recovery. “Everyone else is just fine. Bilbo Baggins is here, did you know?” I shook my head. “He asked after you once or twice, you might think of visiting him when you feel up to it.” He sighed, then frowned. “What else am I missing?”

            I watched him fish into his memory, until he jumped up suddenly and looked quickly to me. “Ah, I remember now! We’re hosting emissaries right now, Gléoláf, scores of them, from all over- elves, dwarves, men…they’ve all come here for…well, Lord Elrond did tell me he would explain privately. It’s a bit hushed up right now, the whole business. Once you’re up and dressed you’re to see him today.”

            “I will,” I said, nodding. “Thank you, Glorfindel.”

            “Finish the tea,” he said on his way out. Obediently, I drained the last of the mug and swept the covers off, yanking my white shift over my head and throwing open my wardrobe doors.

            Someone had bathed me while I’d slept, and I felt cleaner than I’d been in years. My eyes flickered over the options that were left to me, and blew an exasperated sigh. My lord uncle had always told me that when we had visiting dignitaries I was to be on my best behavior, and somehow fine gowns were always part of that equation.

            Unwilling to dress in something particularly fancy, I chose a plain olive-colored dress that buttoned in the front, and tied pine-colored overskirts in place over it. I was thinner than I remembered, probably a result of the fever. That was muscle I’d have to rebuild in the practice arena sometime soon, but not now. Some emissaries became a tad offended when a woman marched into the arena and asked one of their men to have a spar.

            I chose a pair of worn riding gloves with the fingers cut out and slid them onto my hands. When I looked at my left palm there was a little silvery mark in the shape of a circle where the cursed thing had burned into me. It seemed like it was just another cross to bear, another scar in my extensive collection.

            When I strode outside, the halls were quiet and blessedly empty. I began to braid my hair as I walked, a bit of an acquired skill. When I passed the door to the gardens I paused, tempted to go outside and breathe the fresh air, but something inside me made me turn for the hospital wing.

            I rapped softly on the door and poked my head inside of the door, whispering. “Hello?”

            A familiar wizened grey-bearded figure turned in his chair to see me. “Oh, hello, dear girl. It seems you’ve come back to us at last.”

            “Gandalf,” I breathed, slipping inside to throw my arms around him.

            “Gracious, but you’ve gotten thin,” he muttered as he drew away, looking me over.

            “I was sick,” I said, by way of explanation.

            “I had heard,” he replied, taking his seat again. I pulled a chair up beside him and sat, finishing my hair. “Lord Elrond enlisted my help in your recovery.”

            “I thank you,” I said, smiling gratefully. “I don’t know what you did, but I’m beginning to feel like myself again.”

            “You were having quite a few distressing dreams,” the wizard said, bushy eyebrows quivering like they were wont to do when he was knee-deep in contemplations. “I have done my best to assure that you won’t remember any of them.”

            At the moment, the only dream I could remember was the one from Midgewater, but I flushed to the roots of my hair to even _think_ about it.

            There was a stir from the bed, and we both turned as Frodo inhaled deeply, face twisting into a frown. “Where am I?” he murmured, though it was lost to me if he was coherent or not.

            “The House of Elrond,” said Gandalf, apparently better-informed than I. “October the twenty-fourth. About…eleven o’clock in the morning.”

            At that, Frodo opened his eyes. “Gandalf?”

            “Yes,” said the wizard, smiling as he smoked his pipe. “I’m here. And you’re lucky to be here, too. A few more hours and you would have been beyond our aid.” He smiled again. “But with a bit of quick action from Gléoláf you were brought safely. You have some strength in you, my dear hobbit.”

            “What happened, Gandalf?” asked the hobbit in a soft voice. “Why didn’t you meet us?”

            “Oh, I’m sorry, Frodo…” The wizard seemed to grow distant. “I was…delayed.”

            A long silence passed, broken only by the chirping of birds and the rushing of the waterfall.

            “Gandalf?” Frodo asked, concern tingeing his voice. “What is it?”

            Gandalf gave a start. “Nothing, Frodo.”

            I thought to pursue the subject, but a pattering of feet announced another’s arrival into the room. “Frodo! Frodo!”

            “Sam,” Frodo said, grinning as his friend clasped his hand in joy, smiles ear-to-ear.

            “Sam has hardly left your side,” said Gandalf, chuckling.

            “We were that worried about you, weren’t we, Mr. Gandalf?” asked Sam, turning and seeming to notice me for the first time. “Oh! Miss Gléoláf, you’ve woken too? What a happy day this is turning out to be!”

            “Yes, Sam, indeed,” I said, unable to fight his infectious enthusiasm. “I’m glad to be…glad to be back.”

            “By the skills of Lord Elrond, you’re beginning to mend,” said the wizard, nodding his approval.

            “Welcome to Rivendell, Frodo Baggins,” said a familiar voice behind us. I whirled around to meet the smiling face of my great-uncle Elrond.

            “ _Adnan!_ ” I exclaimed, throwing my arms around him and squeezing tightly.

            “It seems that the sickness has not depleted your strength any,” he wheezed, and I let him go. “That is good. How are you feeling, niece?”

            “I am feeling better by the minute, uncle,” I said, with a smile.

            “And your hand?” he took my left palm and traced his thumb over the pale silvery circle. His brow furrowed. “I do not know what sort of lasting effects that the scar may have.”

            “I have plenty of scars, uncle,” I said softly. “Another is a petty matter.”

            He still seemed unconvinced, so I smiled again at him. “Frodo, perhaps you should stick on a coat and I’ll take you out and show you around? Even the most intrepid explorers have been known to get lost in these halls.”

            Frodo had tumbled out of bed in a few minutes and been fetched his waistcoat by Sam, and the two had hurried outside, waiting for me to follow.

            “Wait a moment, Gléoláf,” my uncle said, just as I had turned to leave behind them. I turned back to him, confused by his sudden seriousness. “ _Adnan?_ What is it?”

            “I had thought to fill you in more appropriately on the situation here,” he said, clasping my hands in his. “I hope that Glorfindel informed you of the situation with the dignitaries…”

            “He did, _Adnan_ ,” I assured, nodding. “But…why are they here? Why have they come?”

            “You know better than anyone else the object that Frodo has brought here,” he said, eyebrows knitting together again as he turned my palm up and traced the silvery circle. “They have come here to take part in a council. We will have to decide there what we mean to do with it.”

            “A council?” I said, lowering my voice. “A council with whom, _Adnan?_ ”

            “The Free Peoples,” he told me. “Those you have sworn to protect and serve. I have every expectation to see you there, Gléoláf.”

            “And Estel?” I questioned, somewhat nervously.

            “Him as well,” my uncle assured me. “You two will be together representing the Dúnedain. Remember that you are the future of the nation, whether for good or ill. You represent it as such.”

            “Do you take me for a child?” I questioned, frowning.

            “I take you for an _elleth_ ,” he told me, releasing my hands. “An _elleth_ with a history of offending the emissaries with her scandalous ideas.” I opened my mouth in indignation, but there was a smile in his eyes. “Go on. Don’t keep your guests waiting.”

            “Of course, Dear Uncle,” I said facetiously, dipping into a low curtsy with an ostentatious wave of my hand. “Pray excuse me; I believe you are correct- I mustn’t leave Master Baggins and Master Gamgee waiting overlong.”

            As I took made my dainty exit, I caught Gandalf’s chuckle following me out.


	11. IX: Insufferable Gondorim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sorry…” he said, holding up his finger, “what? Forgive me, dear lady, for bringing up the subject, but where is it your place to admonish me?”
> 
> I opened my mouth at him, face reddening in anger. “Are you saying that you’d expect me to remain silent in the background while you’re flinging about the sword of our forefathers? Correct me if I’m wrong, sir, but you weren’t exactly the most careful with Narsil back there.”
> 
> “It’s already in pieces,” he scoffed, but he stopped off dead at the look I gave him. “Look, I don’t know who you are or where you came from, sir, but I would advise you to have a care who you speak to in such a manner.”

**IX: Insufferable Gondorim**

_October 24_

            “Just a business matter,” I assured the hobbits as I joined them in the hall. “Shall we go? We could start outside, I’m afraid I’m itching terribly for a walk in the gardens.”

            Nearly as soon as we stepped outside, Merry and Pippin shot around the corner to squeeze Frodo half to death, laughing. Once the reunions had been said and done, the two cousins tugged him off to another figure, sitting on a bench with a soft grey shawl wrapped about his shoulders.

            “Bilbo!” Frodo exclaimed, dashing off, and I squinted and took a few steps forward. _No, it couldn’t be._

            “Hello, Frodo, my lad!” said the old hobbit, standing and embracing him.

            “Bilbo Baggins?” I questioned, my grin emerging. “Béma be good, is that really you?”

            “Well, all my stars,” he said, looking up at me and smiling. “Gléoláf! You haven’t aged a day!”

            “No, I fear it’s been about seventy-seven years,” I said, grinning as I stooped to hug him. “You don’t look bad yourself. Ready to chase down another dragon?”

            “Afraid not,” he said, sitting back down on the bench. “Rivendell is so lovely in this time of the year, isn’t it?”

            “Terribly,” I sighed, turning back to look over the valley. “I could freeze the seasons and stay here forever, but I’m afraid I’d miss the cherry blossoms and the willow trees.” I turned back. “The seasons all have their advantages, I suppose.”

            “I had always wondered,” he said, peering at me. Frodo and the others were exchanging bewildered glances, looking first to Bilbo and then to me. “Do you still have those little trinkets I gave you?”

            “The dagger I still have,” I told him, “and the brooch as well. You’d have to ask Estel about the silver coin, though.”

            “Pardons,” Sam spoke, and I looked to him. “You and Mr. Bilbo know each other?”

            “We met a few times on my adventure,” Bilbo said to him, turning and frowning. “Don’t you remember my tales of the fair elf-maiden of the golden head?”

            “Well, being that it’s been a while…” Sam trailed off, flushing. I grinned at him. “Give it a rest, Bilbo; I don’t look much of an elf. And I fear the maid piece is inaccurate, following the Battle of Five Armies.” At that, Merry and Pippin shared wide-eyed awed looks, then broke into childish giggles. I rolled my eyes, muttering, “Children.”

            “You are an elf, then?” Frodo spoke, looking me over with his eyes of clear blue.

            “Half-elven,” I explained, running a hand through the hair that had fallen loose from my braid. “My mother was from here, in Rivendell. My father came from Rohan. It’s to him I owe this hair. I’m afraid they’ve both left us, though. And if you ask anyone here, I’m Dúnedain, at least until these blasted emissaries leave.” I looked around. “Don’t any of you tell Lord Elrond I said that.”

            The five hobbits nodded at me.

            I had a sudden thought. _Speaking of Dúnedain…_ “Say, Frodo, I believe that Master Bilbo here may be able to show you around here a bit quicker than I. He’s been here more recently. If you would excuse me, sirs, I have other greetings and hellos to make.”

            “Of course, go on,” said Merry, and he and Pippin were shooing me back inside, leaving me only to wonder what sort of trouble they were going to get into.

            I found my way down the corridors, into the back corners of the house where the sun had not yet come. It seemed like night in the halls, with the world turned black and blue. I found the door I had searched for and went inside, peeking around for my target.

            I smiled when I saw him. “My Lord Chieftain,” I said as I entered.

He raised his eyes, chilling ice blue. “Should I be worried at the sudden formalities, _Osellë?_ ”

            “Lord Elrond told me to be on my best behavior for all these dignitaries,” I sighed, sitting down beside him. “Why are you reading here? It’s so dark.”

            “It’s quiet back here,” he said, “And I’d like to concentrate.”

            “Mm. I apologize for disturbing you then, m’lord.” I stood, smoothing out my skirts. I had a thought, and turned back to him. “Has Elrond informed you of the…business?”

            “Every word of it,” he said, his eyes traveling the page. “Be punctual. And I don’t care what Elrond says, wear trousers. Valar know no one will listen to you there if you’re wearing a flowery skirt.”

            Sudden silence on my end made him look up, and cock an eyebrow. “What?”

            “I could kiss you right now,” I said, honestly.

            “Well, don’t,” he advised, looking back down and picking up the corner of the page to turn it. “I’ve heard sisters become quite pensive when they start kissing each other’s suitors.”

            “Well, not on the lips,” I said, appalled. “You’re my brother. That’s disgusting.”

            “I suppose we don’t have a problem, then.” He turned the page. I rolled my eyes, and turned at boot heels clicking on the floor.

            In walked a stranger. Another of the blasted emissaries, I supposed. He was a tall man, who looked recently bathed. His dark hair looked glossy and he was clean-shaven, and clad in travel-worn vestments of fine wool and linen. He walked inside and stopped in front of the mural on the wall, of Isildur holding up the jagged hilt of Elendil’s blade in an act of open defiance against the Dark Lord. He turned around and caught sight of my brother and I. When he spoke, though, I could tell he was only addressing the former. “You are no elf.”

            “Men of the South are welcome here,” he replied, gesturing at the newcomer.

            “Who are you?” he questioned, peering intently at my brother’s fine visage and dark hair, cleaner than I had seen it in decades.

            “I am a friend to Gandalf the Grey,” he replied, cryptically.

            “Then we are here on common purpose,” said the emissary, with a roguish grin. “Friend.” He turned aside, and caught sight of the podium just next to us.

            “The Shards of Narsil!” he said, amazed, scaling the steps and running his eyes over the shattered sword. He picked up the hilt; jagged as it had been the day Sauron had stepped on it to break it into pieces. “The blade that cut the Ring from Sauron’s hand.” He ran his index finger along the edge, wincing with a small gasp and pulling it away. “Still sharp,” he mused.

            The smile faded. Slowly, he looked sideways at my brother, who met his suddenly-horrified glance with cool blue eyes.

            “No more than a broken heirloom,” he hissed, replacing the hilt and turning on his heel to go, heedless of when it clattered to the floor. He paused, briefly, and then continued on his way out, sucking the blood from his fingertip.

            I turned back to my brother, who had returned to his book as if nothing had ever happened. _Chieftain of the Dúnedain, indeed._ I gave him a poisonous look and retreated, ladylike steps forgotten in my blind rage. _Who will defend our honor, if not our chieftain?_

            “Oi, you,” I called after the man, once I had caught up to him in the halls. He halted, peered behind him with a frown. “Yes, _you_ , ho there a moment.” I halted in front of him and was quickly aware of his staggering height, six foot four if I was to judge. He easily dwarfed me at five foot ten. Not that I was going to let it intimidate me. “I would prefer our broken heirlooms to be honored as they are, sir. I’m sure I wouldn’t go poncing about dropping your emblems all over the place, were I in your kingdom.”

            “I’m sorry…” he said, holding up his finger, “what? Forgive me, dear lady, for bringing up the subject, but where is it your place to admonish me?”

            I opened my mouth at him, face reddening in anger. “Are you saying that you’d expect me to remain silent in the background while you’re flinging about the sword of our forefathers? Correct me if I’m wrong, sir, but you weren’t exactly the most careful with Narsil back there.”

            “It’s already in pieces,” he scoffed, but he stopped off dead at the look I gave him. “Look, I don’t know who you are or where you came from, sir, but I would advise you to have a care who you speak to in such a manner.”

            “And perhaps you should have a care when you speak to the future Steward of Gondor, woman,” he shot back. “You have the pleasure of addressing Boromir, son of Denethor, come from Minas Tirith to attend Lord Elrond’s council.”

            “The displeasure is all mine,” I said venomously, crossing my arms. “And if I were you I wouldn’t mention it where other ears could hear it, Lord Boromir. I was told we were to keep it under wraps.” He had the grace to blush. “And keep your tongue in check, sir. You’re speaking to the next Chieftain of the Dúnedain, provided that my brother begets no heirs.”

            “The heiress presumptive of a bedraggled band of wild-lurkers?” he said in scorn. “I must say, your prospective inheritance is quite impressive.”

            “We have more sway here than the Stewards of Gondor,” I spat. “He and I are wards of Elrond, and descended from his brother’s get. I’d love to sugarcoat it for you, but no one here gives a shit about the stewards.”

            “Now listen here,” he growled, stepping forward, but behind me two throats cleared in perfect unison. I turned slightly, and saw the twins behind me, perfectly identical down to the buttons on their robes.

            “We hate to break up this lovely conversation, but I fear we have things to discuss with our dear cousin,” said one of them. When they dressed alike as they had today, there was no real way to tell them apart.

            “Yes, terribly sorry, Lord Boromir,” said the other, inclining his head slightly. “If we could take her off?”

            Boromir opened his mouth to argue, but one of them preceded his protest. “We fear there is no room to argue here, not with the _sons_ of Elrond.”

            The tall lord shut his mouth, flushing. One of the twins stepped aside, and he shoved past him, moving briskly down the hall. I stared after his back, burning inside. “Insufferable Gondorim,” I muttered.

            “Cousin, dear, you really mustn’t fly off the handle like that,” said the twin on my left.

            “He was all but denouncing the honor of my nation, and Estel never even lifted a finger!” I bristled, gesturing in at the museum. “He just sat there like nothing had ever happened, and who is going to protect our pride if not our chieftain?”

            “Perhaps he was brushing it off as the prickly conscience of a prideful man from Gondor,” said the twin on my right. “Some people just aren’t worth arguing with.”

            “I could certainly think of better things to be doing right now,” I muttered, indignant.

            “Dear cousin, as the host of this council,” said the twin on the left, “it is part of your responsibility to keep your tongue in check and be polite to all of the foreigners. When you ride off to their country, it will be their turn to do the same.”

            “Somehow I’m not convinced,” I muttered. “And besides, Elladan-”

            “Elrohir.”

            “Right,” I heaved an exasperated sigh, rolling my eyes. “And besides, I’m not the host of this council, Rivendell is. I don’t owe him any courtesies that he’s not going to show me.”

            “Nationalism will get you nowhere, I’m afraid, dear cousin,” said the twin on the right, Elladan. “Swallow your prickly pride. It will hurt, but your negotiations will go all the better for it.” He tilted my chin with his delicate fingers and kissed my forehead. “We will see you at supper.”

            I watched them go down the hall, still scowling. I crossed my arms, turned the other way.

            “Insufferable Gondorim,” I muttered again, setting off down the third corridor. “ _Hmph_.”


	12. X: Questions Pertaining to Jewelry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Outside, there was a chill in the air. Heedless of it, I trotted down the steps, folded my arms looking for my chieftain. He seemed to be missing at the moment, but a few others were there, mostly elves. One of them noticed me and broke off from his company, coming to kneel before me and kiss my hand. “Lady Gléoláf, you are as fair as when last I saw you.”
> 
> “Well that’s not nice, I’m fairly clean now,” I frowned. Then I chuckled. “Legolas of Mirkwood. How fares your father?”
> 
> “He is well,” said the prince, with a quirk at the corner of his mouth. “Still the same, I’d fear.”
> 
> “Oh, well, permit us all our faults.” With this one at least, courtesy came easily. I paused, and looked around. “I had heard that skulking creature Gollum had come to your dungeons.”
> 
> At that, the prince looked grim. “I’m afraid that’s why my party was here at such a fortuitous time. Gollum’s escaped, and we haven’t been able to track him down.”

**X: Questions Pertaining to Jewelry**

_October 25_

            I woke at first light, as if I had some watch to stand. I was running on Esteldín time, for whatever reason, and though it was still dark outside, I was alert and awake.

            I opened my dresser to find my clothes waiting for me; a tunic of diamonded black and silver, soft olive-colored breeches and a grey velvet surcoat that fell to the mid-thigh. My high black leather boots had been cleaned and oiled, and the belt that sat by them looked new.

            I set to dressing, shrugging into my simple corset and lacing the ties up for the necessary support. The white undershirt went on over it, partly for warmth, but mostly so the laces wouldn’t show through my clothes. Once all of the necessary underthings had been donned, I pulled the breeches up and laced them at the sides, the norm for when one was wearing a surcoat. The shirt was comfortably snug, and the surcoat went over it and buttoned on the inside, through the middle. I sat down to tug on my boots, and those went over a pair of warm socks. I had never liked having chilly feet. After that I belted on the black leather stripe. It went around my waist, and I fastened it at the third hole.

            I had always prided myself on not needing maids, and today was a demonstration of just that. When I had brushed the tangles from my hair I made it into a tight braid, the better to show off my rank by the three earrings I wore. After some brief thought, I slipped on the ring from Lothlórien.

            As I walked out the door, I passed three yawning girls who paused and gaped at me as I went by.

            “Go back to bed, if you like,” I told them, and continued on my way to the courtyard.

            Outside, there was a chill in the air. Heedless of it, I trotted down the steps, folded my arms looking for my chieftain. He seemed to be missing at the moment, but a few others were there, mostly elves. One of them noticed me and broke off from his company, coming to kneel before me and kiss my hand. “Lady Gléoláf, you are as fair as when last I saw you.”

            “Well that’s not nice, I’m fairly clean now,” I frowned. Then I chuckled. “Legolas of Mirkwood. How fares your father?”

            “He is well,” said the prince, with a quirk at the corner of his mouth. “Still the same, I’d fear.”

            “Oh, well, permit us all our faults.” With this one at least, courtesy came easily. I paused, and looked around. “I had heard that skulking creature Gollum had come to your dungeons.”

            At that, the prince looked grim. “I’m afraid that’s why my party was here at such a fortuitous time. Gollum’s escaped, and we haven’t been able to track him down.”

            “No,” I hissed, eyes widening.

            “All true,” said the dark-haired elf, who looked so much like his father save for the ebon locks his mother had given him. “I’ve given the news to Lord Elrond, and he says that this council may yield some answers to the situation.”

            “Let’s hope,” I murmured. At that, I heard another set of feet on the stairs and turned, hopeful for my brother, but getting an eyeful of Boromir instead. He was speaking to one of the older emissaries from Dale, dressed in rich finery with the White Tree blazoned across his black doublet. The seven stars above its branches were embroidered in silver thread, and his breeches were dyed a dark blue color. His bone-white cape was trimmed in soft grey fur, and a silver ring glittered at his left middle finger. Briefly we made eye contact, but I broke it to turn back to Legolas.

            “Where is Estel?” he questioned. “I would’ve thought you two would arrive together.”

            “Oh, hell if I know,” sighing at the mention of My Brother of the Many Names, Estel being just one. “Try as he may to make it seem otherwise, I’m still the elder, and I’ll storm into his bedroom and dress him myself; if that’s the way it’s going to be.”

            “No need,” said Legolas, gesturing at the stairs. Estel had appeared, rubbing tiredly at the corner of one eye and yawning. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said, eyes shining with mirth as he stepped back towards his envoy.

            “I’d never known you for a late sleeper,” I said, quirking an eyebrow as he drew close. “And stop yawning, m’lord Chieftain, it really is quite unsightly.”

            “So, may I ask after the nature of your weariness?” I inquired, as we turned and began to move for our seats. “Or will I know when Lord Elrond eyes you like he’s trying to picture how your head would look out on a pike by the gates?”

            Estel winced at that and we sat down, on two chairs fairly near Lord Elrond’s high seat. “I hope not. I’ve grown rather fond of my head; I’d hate to part with it so soon.”

            “Really, I can’t exactly blame him,” I murmured, rolling my eyes. “My uncle is a patient man, but I can understand how someone fucking his daughter under his own roof would peeve him. You’ve not even married her.”

            “She was no maid when I came to her bed,” he muttered defiantly, under his breath. “You _know_ he won’t let us marry. And if you really must know, it wasn’t under his roof, it was in his garden.”

            “Sorry I asked,” I mumbled, wrinkling my nose against the mental images.

            As the sun came up, various other nobles and dignitaries came into the courtyard in their best, took their seats and began to talk amongst themselves. I got up once to offer my greetings to the dwarf Glóin, whose beard was a fair bit whiter than I remembered it, though beside him there stood another with a beard as wild and red as his had been all those years ago, and I decided that it must have been his son.

            “Gimli at your service,” he said, with a bow. I could only grin to recall how his father had introduced himself the same way.

            “I was in Ered Luin just recently,” I recounted to them. “I believe it was Dwalin and Dori who I met there. Tell me, sirs; have you any developments on the situation there?”

            “The elf-prince there has been found,” Glóin told me, “And a combined assault drove that foul Dourhand out just before we left. The rangers in charge there had said something about finding a Strider.”

            My blood ran cold. “…they won’t find him.” I could only hope that they ran into a few of the Bree-land rangers, Saeradan or one of the others. They could get their orders from there.

            “They’ll chase after Skorgrím, they’ve said as much,” said Glóin, “and after this council I mean to help them in any way I can.”

I looked up, and noticed Lord Elrond trailing out with the twins behind him, flanked by Erestor and Glorfindel. “Forgive me, but I believe we’re beginning.” I stepped back to my chair and sat down, sharing a brief look with Estel before I looked aside and noticed Frodo and Gandalf sitting across the way. I offered the nervous-looking hobbit a brief smile, before the elves from Rivendell had sat and Elrond had looked about at all of us gathered. Not one seat was empty.

Satisfied, he began. “Strangers from distant lands, friends of old. You have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. You will unite…or you will fall.”

I inhaled deeply, and breathed a soft sigh.

“Each race is bound to this fate, this one doom,” he said, and then he looked down to the sole hobbit in attendance. I supposed I could sympathize with him- I was the only woman there. Lord Elrond outstretched a hand, and gestured to the small podium in the center of the courtyard. “Bring forth the Ring, Frodo.”

I had thought that the issue of the Ring might have come up, but I hadn’t expected it so soon, or so blatantly brought up.

Slowly, the hobbit got to his feet, his hand closed around something small. He walked out to the center, and hesitantly placed the small golden band onto the podium.

As soon as I saw it a whisper nagged at my ears. _Peredhel._ Startled, I nearly jumped out of my seat and looked bewilderedly at my left palm. The circle there was itching, but it looked just the same as it had when I had woken that morning.

“So it is true,” murmured Boromir. I cast a sideways glance at him. Though the sun had risen and the soft golden light was filtering in on us through the trees, his hair still looked as black as night. A few strands of it had slipped loose and fallen into his forehead.

The southron stood up, looking about us all. “In a dream,” he said, “I saw the eastern sky grow dark. But in the west, a pale light lingered. A voice was crying, ‘your doom is near at hand.’“ He looked down to the Ring, sitting there and looking quite harmless. “Isildur’s Bane is found.” He took a step closer, outstretching a hand, whispered, “Isildur’s Bane…”

Lord Elrond, sensing disaster, sprang out of his chair. “ _Boromir!_ ”

 _Ash nazg durbatuluk!_ Roared some voice. Startled, I looked up to see Gandalf standing up and calling out in the black tongue, and I flinched at the sudden twanging pain in my left hand. _Ash nazg gimbatul!_ I looked to the Ring, sitting on its podium, and heard the voice again, whispering the words along with Gandalf. _Ash nazg thrakatulûk!_ All of the elves were wincing in pain, putting their hands to their foreheads and grimacing. _Ash burzum-ishi krimpatul!_

A shocked silence filtered in. Even the birds had ceased their chirping, even though the light returned after the chanting had gone.

“Never before has anyone dared utter the words of that tongue, here in Imladris,” muttered Elrond.

“I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond,” said Gandalf, in a voice made raw from the words. “For the Black Speech of Mordor may yet be heard in every corner of the west. The Ring is altogether evil!”

“It is a gift!” hissed Boromir, as he turned to go take his seat once more. “A gift, to the foes of Mordor! Why _not_ use this Ring?” he jumped up again, speaking to us all where we sat. “Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of _our_ people,” he said, jabbing a finger into the middle of his chest, “are _your_ lands kept safe!” his finger swept across us all in our seats. “Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy. Let us use it against him!”

“You cannot wield it,” spoke my brother, from beside me. Boromir turned his disdainful eye on the both of us. “None of us can. The One Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master.”

“And what,” he scoffed, “would a ranger know of this matter?”

Without thinking I sprang to my feet, heedless of his _what-are-you-doing_ look. “This is no mere _ranger.”_ I returned his heavy scowl with one just as fierce. “He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn.”

Silence in the courtyard, but behind me, my brother resigned himself to this name, the name that he feared perhaps the most of all. He sat straighter, took a deep breath, met Boromir’s contemptuous charcoal-grey eyes.

“Aragorn?” muttered the Gondorim, lip curling in an almighty sneer. “This is Isildur’s heir?”

“And heir to the throne of Gondor,” I told him, almost smug. “You owe him your allegiance.”

“ _Havo dad, Osellë_ ,” said Aragorn, speaking softly like he was talking down a frightened horse. I looked down at him, shot one more defiant look at Boromir before taking my seat.

_(Be seated, sister.)_

Boromir looked at us together, before muttering to us both, “Gondor has no king.” He reserved a specially poisonous glance for me. “Gondor needs no king.” Pride wounded, he slunk back to his seat and glared at me. Struck with the childish urge to stick my tongue out at him, I turned away, fixing my eyes ahead.

“Aragorn is right,” said Gandalf, refocusing us all on the task at hand. “We cannot use it.”

“You have only one choice,” Lord Elrond declared, shifting in his seat and looking down upon us all. “The Ring must be destroyed.”

A nervous silence went through the council. _To have it melted down; we’d need to take it to the very core of Orodruin,_ I remembered. Boromir gave a soft sigh. I turned to Aragorn. We shared a gloomy look.

“Then what are we waiting for?” roared Gimli, seizing an axe and bringing it down upon the Ring. A metallic sound made me cringe and grit my teeth. When I opened my eyes, Gimli had been thrown back onto the ground. Among the shards of his ruined weapon sat the Ring, without a scratch to mar its pretty gold surface. Glóin and the others rushed to help the spluttering Gimli up onto his feet again.

“The Ring cannot be destroyed,” said Elrond wryly, “Gimli, son of Glóin, by any craft we here possess. It was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. The Ring must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came.”

He gazed out over the startled silence, deadly serious. “One of you…must do this.”

Nothing. Birds chirped in the trees, out of place in the mood. No one moved, no one spoke. _Well, don’t all go jumping at once,_ I thought to say.

“One does not simply walk into Mordor,” said Boromir, looking up at us all as if we had gone stark raving mad. “Its black gates are guarded by more than just orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep. And the Great Eye is ever watchful.” He looked at us all, sitting there stock still. _Is he trying to frighten us out of this?_ I wondered. “It is a barren wasteland,” he continued, “riddled with fire and ash and dust. The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not with ten thousand men could you do this,” he declared, shaking his head. “It is folly.”

“Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond has said?” snapped Legolas, getting to his feet. “The Ring must be destroyed.”

“And I suppose you think you’re the one to do it?” barked Gimli, rising.

“And if we fail, what then?” Boromir stood, adding his lot in angrily to the mix. “What happens when Sauron takes back what is his?”

“I will die before I see the One Ring in the hands of an elf!” roared Gimli. “Never trust an elf!”

At that, the elves stood up and began to shout angrily, bringing the dwarves up on their feet in another second. Legolas was trying to contain his own host as Gimli spat at their feet. Gandalf rose, bellowing over the din: “Sauron’s power grows, none will escape it!” Boromir turned to meet him, and the two started a fierce row that only added to the chaos in the courtyard.

I heard the whispers, louder than ever, escalating, and when I looked the Ring seemed almost like it was reflecting the fierce inferno of its birthplace. _Ash nazg durbatuluk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg durbatuluk, ash nazg…ash nazg…_

Suddenly, there was a faint cry above the arguments. I raised my eyes, looking for the speaker, but everyone was wrapped up in their own debate-

“I will take it!” this time I heard it loud and clear, and the courtyard fell completely silent, turned to find the one who had spoken.

Frodo stood by himself, looking especially small. “I will take the Ring to Mordor,” he said to us, his voice only wavering a little bit. “Though…I do not know the way.”

 _Oh, you brave, brave little thing._ I blinked at the council, still staring at him, astonished, awestruck. I would like to think that some were shamed, that this little creature from the Shire had volunteered to do what none of them would even dare to think about.

Then Gandalf spoke. “I will help you to bear this burden, Frodo Baggins.” He stood behind the hobbit, put his hand on his shoulder. “As long as it is yours to bear.”

Aragorn and I shared a glance, and then the two of us moved towards where the hobbit and the wizard stood, and together we knelt before him. “If by our life or our death we can protect you, we will,” said Aragorn.

“You have our swords,” I promised.

As we took our places on either side of Gandalf, Legolas stepped forward, taking a deep breath and then telling the hobbit, “And you have my bow.”

Not about to be outdone, Gimli held up yet another axe and declared, “And my axe.”

I smiled as he moved next to Legolas, and then shifted away, determined to keep space between them.

The next to stand, much to my chagrin, was Boromir. “You carry the fate of us all, little one,” he said softly, stepping forward and looking over our little throng. “If this is the will of the council…then Gondor will see it done.”

“ _Hey!_ ” came a voice, and then a rustle for the bushes. A wide grin might have split my face as Sam came dashing out, moving to stand beside Frodo and stubbornly cross his arms. “Mr. Frodo’s not going anywhere without me.”

Lord Elrond looked at him in amusement, the corners of his mouth twitching. “No indeed,” he sighed at last. “It is hardly possible to separate you, even when he is invited to a secret council, and you are not.” Sam blushed and looked at his feet.

He didn’t have too much time to be bashful, for just then there were two more little figures dashing in to join our swelling ranks. “Hey! We’re comin’ too!” Pippin announced.

“And you’d have to send us home tied up in a sack to stop us,” Merry added. Lord Elrond looked at them like he was seriously contemplating calling for a few sacks, but just then Pippin quipped, “Besides. You need people of intelligence on this sort of mission. Quest…thing.”

I snorted. Merry looked disdainfully to his cousin. “Well that rules you out, Pip.”

Lord Elrond appraised us all as we stood: king-in-waiting, elven-prince, dwarven-warrior, she-wolf, steward-prince, Istar, Ringbearer and friends. “Ten companions,” he said, almost as if contemplating to himself. Then, he nodded slowly, and spoke to us and the council together. “So be it. You shall be…the Fellowship of the Ring.”

The sun seemed to break through the clouds, a gentle breeze stirred our hair, and the dignity and pride of the elder days glimmered on our brows like starlight, and we stood together in a moment, a moment of true picturesque heroism…

“Great,” said Pippin. “Where are we going?”


	13. XI: Strangers in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Immediately I shuddered. The last hoorah of summer had passed us by, it seemed. The breeze was cutting right through the summer fabric covering me, and I hunched over with my arms folded and stared out the window at the plethora of reds and oranges and yellows. The leaves were changing with the seasons. Time to break out the velvets, I thought absently, turning back and digging into the supple wood drawers for something suitable to wear.
> 
> I had barely taken three steps into the Hall of Fire before Arwen had flown at me like a distressed bird of paradise, in her peacock-hued gown. “Is it true?” she gasped, clutching onto my shoulders. “Aragorn said…a Fellowship…you aren’t going too?”
> 
> I glanced around her head, spotted many heads quickly averted, gazes suddenly dropped. Word had gotten out faster than I thought it would. It seemed there was no use in delaying the truth. I looked Arwen in the eyes, and nodded. “I am.”

**XI: Strangers in the Dark**

_October 26_

            My shadow lover came to me again that night. This time when he settled onto the bed, he kissed me soundly and sweetly on my lips, pouring so much passion and feeling into it that I had no doubt that the shadow loved me.

            But did I love him? How could I, if I did not know him? “I would see your face,” I told him, but as usual he made no reply, and his fingers drifted down between my legs and rubbed there until I was squirming and wet. Then his gentle hands lifted me over him and sat me down astride his hips, moving a hand to guide himself inside of me. I found myself sighing as he pushed inside, invading my senses and filling me. His hands tugged at my hips, and I pressed my knees to his waist and began to rock slowly against him, my hands resting on his shoulders.

            He was not silent this time; I could hear his heavy breath and soft murmurings of pleasure, feel his fingers digging bruises into my hips as I rose and fell on him like the tides. “Who are you?” I asked him again, reaching for his face, trying to feel for anything that would identify him. I felt the scratch of his beard but before I could find anything else he grabbed my hand and pressed it to his lips, as his thumb reached and prodded the small bud just shy of where he thrust in and out of me, sending me spiraling over the edge and into the waking world again.

            I opened my eyes slowly, pupils flicking from side to side as I blinked in the morning light. The apex of my thighs pulsed in memory, and I swear I could still feel his fingers pressing into my skin, but there was nothing there when I looked. No marks, no indents, nothing.

            For a long while I lay there staring at the ceiling, trying to ponder through the meaning of all of this. I’d had dreams before, but rarely the same one twice. What was even stranger was that this one wasn’t even exactly the same…it had just been the same man, come to visit me again…

            “Look at me,” I muttered suddenly, perhaps to myself. “Laying in bed here contemplating like an elf.” I kicked the covers off and swung my legs out over the edge of the mattress, standing up and plucking my robe from the clothes tree by my wardrobe. As I shrugged into it, I wondered what Arwen may be up to. I had seen little and less of her in my two days here, glances in the hall and little waves at supper. Perhaps today I could seek her out. I tied off the white linen robe and moved out to the window.

            Immediately I shuddered. The last hoorah of summer had passed us by, it seemed. The breeze was cutting right through the summer fabric covering me, and I hunched over with my arms folded and stared out the window at the plethora of reds and oranges and yellows. The leaves were changing with the seasons. _Time to break out the velvets,_ I thought absently, turning back and digging into the supple wood drawers for something suitable to wear.

            I had barely taken three steps into the Hall of Fire before Arwen had flown at me like a distressed bird of paradise, in her peacock-hued gown. “Is it true?” she gasped, clutching onto my shoulders. “Aragorn said…a Fellowship…you aren’t going too?”

            I glanced around her head, spotted many heads quickly averted, gazes suddenly dropped. Word had gotten out faster than I thought it would. It seemed there was no use in delaying the truth. I looked Arwen in the eyes, and nodded. “I am.”

            She seemed to sag with my words. She dropped her hands, turned away from me, stepped slowly down the stairs that tread down into the hall. “Both of you,” she whispered. “Honestly, I…I would have expected this from him, but…you?” She turned helplessly back to me. “You’ve always talked him out of such things, but to join him is another matter.”

            “It _is_ another matter,” I told her, stepping down beside her. “This isn’t like any of the other missions we’ve ever undertaken, Arwen. It’s…”

            I stopped short, peering around at all of the elves and others milling about. “I can’t speak of it here. Will you come for a ride with me? I fear I’m itching terribly for some time in the saddle.”

            She looked at me uncertainly, and then finally she nodded. “I’ll go change.”

            I watched her go, and then turned out of the hall, striding out into the main foyer and out of the great engraved wood doors of the Last Homely House, taking the path down to one of Rivendell’s many bridges, through the marketplace and across another bridge to the stables.

            Arwen and I had always been somewhat at odds with one another. We were like the sun and the moon, some said, fire and ice to others. Any poetic way it was put, we were different. Her skin was milk-white and her eyes a soft blue-grey, her hair a long cascade of shiny onyx, and when the sun hit it there it seemed to create stars that scattered over her brow. I was tanned and scarred from sun and battle, and my gaze was more oft compared to a violent summer gale over Lake Evendim. And as for my hair, it gave off a fierce glare in the light like dwarven gold.

            Our differences didn’t stop there. When she advised _stop,_ I was inclined to _go._ When she said _yes,_ I almost definitely gave a resounding _no._ When she told me _wait and watch and listen,_ I would be raring to charge in screaming. One would be hard-pressed trying to find something that we actually agreed on.

            When I stepped into the stables, I got the same looks that I’d gotten in the Hall of Fire: wide, disbelieving stares. Had word of our mission really gotten out so quickly? I had to wonder. I had thought it was to be a bit of a secret thing, but had the information gone out anyway? I cleared my throat at the stable-master, Ladrochan, an elf who had been in my uncle’s service for many centuries.

            He at least, did not seem to be bothered by whatever it was that had befallen all of the inhabitants of Rivendell. Either he wasn’t, or he was hiding it better than the others. “My Lady Gléoláf. The stables have been quiet without you. What may I do for you today?”

            “I’d have Anláf saddled,” I replied. “And Roheryn as well, the Lady Arwen and I are going out for a ride.”

            “As you wish.” He inclined, in an elegant bow. He turned to some of the stablehands and issued the commands again in Sindar, and they turned into the stables to bring out our palfreys.

            Roheryn emerged first. She was a long-limbed graceful elvish steed, a hardy blood bay that served as Arwen’s riding horse. My cousin did not partake in many hunts or battles, so other sturdier breeds were fairly impractical for her use.

            Anláf came second. He was of similar stock, though his coat was a pale shimmery grey. When he caught sight of me he whickered in greeting, stamping his foot excitedly when the saddle was tossed over his back.

            Arwen arrived as the cinches were being tightened on our saddles, dressed in her dove grey riding habit. Her hair was pinned back, exposing the light point of her ear, not as sharp as in other elves. As much as her demeanor suggested otherwise, she did have mortal blood in her, though not so much as me. My ears didn’t even point in the slightest, but they were more sensitive.

            I mounted Anláf on my own, but Arwen required a boost from one of the stablehands. After we had thanked Ladrochan and trotted off through the gates, I kicked Anláf’s sides and broke into a headlong gallop, hooting. I peeked behind and saw Arwen urging Roheryn forward similarly. I grinned. At least we could agree on some things.

            Our horses were well-lathered by the time we had passed the Gates of Imladris and ridden out onto the High Moor. We reined in our steeds; let them slow to a walk. Galloping left me with a prolonged exhilaration little else could produce, and I was beaming as we let them stop to drink at a stream.

            Anláf and Roheryn drank, butted noses and squealed as Arwen turned to me. “Last night…Aragorn told me of your quest. You will both go, then?”

            “We both will,” I agreed. Arwen’s brows knitted worriedly together, and I made some attempt to reassure her. “You know we’ll look after each other. We’ve been on missions before.”

            “Never so dangerous,” she pointed out, and not falsely. “And never when the stakes are so high.” She fell silent.

            “My father wants me to leave for Valinor,” she said softly.

            I looked at the stream going by, flowing to some river that would join with the sea, someday. “You’re his only daughter. He’s never been particularly attached to the idea of you and Aragorn. And now, with the Ring…” I looked to her. “You mustn’t be too hard on him. He wants most to keep you safe.”

            “He never tries to keep such a handle on you,” she said, looking back up at me.

            I gave her a wry smile, a derisive snort. “I’m just a great-niece. A baseborn one, as some would believe. He cares far less for what I do with my life than you.” I lowered my eyes, down to the water.

            There was silence for a long moment, and then she sighed. “Politics. I’ve never understood them. You are the heiress to the Dúnedain nation and the Princess of Lothlórien, and I’m only the daughter of a lord. How does that earn me _more_ respect?”

            I snorted again. “You don’t understand it, cousin, because you’re far too willing to be deluded by facts.” I met her eyes again. “Politics are half mummery and half pageantry. There’s no room for the truth in there.” I turned back ahead, to the high cliffs that fenced in the Valley of Rivendell. “The Dúnedain are still holding out hope that your son will lead them when Aragorn’s day is done. As for Lórien, the title’s all a formality. All the wood will be empty if and when I ever come into sovereignty. The elves are leaving Middle-Earth, and those in Lórien are quick to remind me I’m only first in line because you deferred to me.”

            Suddenly she looked guilty. “I never meant to cause you that burden.”

            “You never meant to give me a burden,” I murmured, “but an honor. I’ve found, sometimes those honors are the greatest burdens of all.”

            We rode back in silence. I led Anláf back into his stall myself, took off his saddle and picked up the curry comb. Cooing to him as I brushed, I turned my head at the soft whickers that stirred the hair on my head.

            My three horses, Anláf, Melisand, and Beowulf, shared one large airy stall at the end of the stables. They were best of friends, groomed each other, swatted each other’s flies and scratched each other’s itches.

            “Hello, Melisand,” I said to my courser as he nibbled on my hair. He always had an odd tendency to mistake my head for a bundle of hay. “You made it back, I see.” The courser snorting, pawing the floors and turning to dip his head into the water trough. Anláf stretched out happily for the brush. I realized that all the soft typical sounds of horses had ground to an abrupt halt, and I looked up, suddenly wary.

            Boromir had stepped inside and was murmuring to one particular horse, one that looked like it had Rohirric blood. The mare whickered and pushed her nose into his left shoulder, and he laughed and showed her the apple he’d hidden in that hand. I felt an odd smile quirking at the corner of my lips, knowing that it must have been some game that they played, to have her guess which hand he hid the apple in. He rubbed the star on her forehead fondly.

            Then, by some cruel twist of fate, he turned back and saw me. Rapidly I averted my eyes, went back to brushing out Anláf’s coat, but it was too late. He’d seen me looking.

            “Find something interesting, my lady?” he said to me. I bit the inside of my cheek to still a sharp retort, and answered instead: “I better than anyone here can appreciate fine horseflesh. Your mare is quite well-bred. How did you come by her?”

            “She was a gift,” he replied, patting her neck and coming to lean on the stall door. “From Prince Théodred of Rohan, a few birthdays past.” I tried not to let my heart jolt at the mention of his name, and I tried even harder to shove down the guilt that came after, at having promised to return and having not seen done so yet. Eleven years had passed the world by since then. It was the blink of an eye to me, but it would have been longer to him, much longer. “What about you? Are these three all yours?”

            “They are,” I replied. “This one is Anláf. He was bred and born here. The courser over there is Melisand; he’s the get of one of my uncle’s mares and this one.” I inclined my head to the other side of the stall. “Beowulf, the destrier. A gift from Prince Théodred of Rohan, a few years past.”

            “You know him too?” questioned the Steward-prince, sounding interested. “He hasn’t spoken of you.”

            “Well, good,” I said, setting the brush aside and finding the comb for the mane. “It means he’s upheld _his_ end of the bargain.” _Though I can’t say the same for me._ “I’m a Ranger, my lord, and I’ve been all over…Dale, Forochel, Lindon…went on a little excursion once with my brother to the Harad, even. The stars there are…strange.” I took a fistful of mane and began to comb out the tangles.

            He eyed at me another moment, then asked, “My lady…you are the sister of this Aragorn?”

            A brief spot of anger flared in me. “In words and treaties, yes. In blood, though, I am a cousin to… _this Aragorn_.”

            There was a brief silence, before he leaned forward. “Then I sincerely hope you’d have the good sense to know the truth of these matters of state.”

            “Matters of state,” I muttered, my eyes narrowing. “I thought we were on kings and succession.”

            He trailed off, his mouth opening and closing before he scowled darkly at me. “You listen, woman, don’t expect me to think you learned in matters of Gondorim law.” He pointed a finger at me and jabbed toward my chest. “All you know of-” his voice turned into a sharp gasp, covered up by an angry whicker and an almighty _clack_ that announced Beowulf’s teeth closing around thin air.

            I petted the destrier’s neck and he withdrew his head from where it had snapped out. Boromir had staggered back and was leaning against the wall, panting, staring wide-eyed at the gargantuan black stallion.

            “I’ll give it to you, you’re quick,” I told him, still petting Beowulf’s shoulder. “I saw him take a man’s hand off that way once. I won’t hold it against you if you have to go change your breeches about now.”

            His dignity in ashes, he shot me one last defiant glare before he turned and stalked out.

            I watched him go, shaking my head. “Insufferable Gondorim,” I muttered, finishing with Anláf’s grooming and setting the tools aside. Melisand nudged at my back as I went and I laughed, reaching behind and patting him as I left. I paused to peer at Boromir’s mare. She was a bit of a gangly thing. I took my leave of the horses.

            Outside, it was even colder as the sun was going down. My stomach gave me a warning rumble and I realized suddenly that I hadn’t eaten at all that day. Ranger that I was, it took me a bit longer to notice these things.

            Deciding to remedy the situation, I took the path down through the marketplace again, and across the two bridges back to the Last Homely House.

            My wish for food, though, seemed ill-fated, for as soon as I had stepped foot inside the hall Arwen had come at me, looking oddly giddy. “Aragorn wants to talk to you,” she whispered, taking hold of my arm and beginning to tug me in the direction of his chambers. “It’s important, come on!”

            “More important than the fact that I haven’t eaten since yesterday?” I grumbled.

            “I’ll have food sent to you,” she hissed, impatient. “Go on, it really is important. And hurry, before he changes his mind.”

            _Before he changes his mind…?_ I strolled off to his chambers, rapping on his door. “Enter,” he said, and I turned the knob and stepped inside.

            My brother was sitting on one of the chairs in his room, his fingers folded together. He was thinking, obviously. I crossed the room and took the seat across from him, leaning forward similarly. “Arwen sent me. She said it was important.”

            “It is,” he said, unfolding and getting to his feet. He didn’t elaborate.

            “I haven’t seen you in two days,” I said, crossing my arms.

            “I’ve been trying to muddle through what’s to be done now,” he said, turning and fixing me with his icy blue stare, now truly cold as its namesake. “Since you’ve ousted me in front of dignitaries from all over, the word will get out of who I am. What I am.”

            “Isildur’s heir,” I said. He flinched. “Is that really so terrible?”

            “Isildur was the doom of the northern kingdom,” he said, his shoulders sagging. “By his folly we became what we are today…a shadow of something much greater.”

            I blinked at him. “The southern kingdom still stands, if you haven’t forgotten. They are still waiting their king.”

            “They aren’t,” he pushed back. “They’ve lived under the rule of the stewards for nigh on a millennium. They’ve survived without kings for a long time. Perhaps…perhaps that is better.”

            I narrowed my eyes at him, also rose. “You are Isildur’s heir,” I told him, setting my hand down on his shoulder. “Not Isildur himself.”

            “The same blood flows through my veins,” he murmured. “The same weakness.”

            I drew away, walked out to the window, watched the sun go down. “Boromir cannot be believed. He may say that Gondor has no king and _needs_ no king, but he’s a man who could trip on his own pride.” I turned to him. “You were there. What did Thorongil see?”

            Aragorn was silent. “He saw a proud people. A proud, dignified people who endure in the shadow of the Eye…” he trailed off. “They endure, but they cannot do so forever.”

            “Then you know they’re still waiting,” I murmured. “And they’ll wait forever if they have to.” I let the last part stammer off into silence. _Though, they do not have forever._

            For a long while we both stood facing opposite, watching east and west, silent. It was he who spoke. “Years ago…you rode into Esteldín when we had thought you dead. I remember you had brought this strange parcel…an otherworldly jewel. Like a diamond, but a thousand times brighter. Touching it was like feeling the ages.” He turned back to me. “Today Lord Elrond showed it to me again. It had been in his possession all this time?”

            “I sent it back to Rivendell with Elladan and Elrohir,” I said, also turning towards him. “Where it could be safe. It’s a powerful magical object, one that couldn’t be trusted to the wrong hands.”

            I looked up, met his eyes. “I may as well tell you of how I came by it, then. When I had finally made it out of Forochel with what was left of the envoy you sent, we ended up, of course, in Evendim. We had meant to cross the Fields of Fornost and return that way, but we came instead to Calenglad’s men at Tinnudir. He was faced with something rather puzzling, you see, he was trying to obtain something from the Lady Gwindeth of the Lake, but there was a little test no one could seem to pass.”

            Someone knocked on the door and a servant popped in, bringing food. “Oh, bless Béma,” I sighed. “Thank you.” I sat down in one of the chairs and tore into a roll, hot and fresh from the oven. “Tuck in, if you want,” I told my brother, gesturing at the tray. “There’s plenty for the both of us.”

            He waited for me to continue my tale.

            “So, I decided to try my hand with this test. I rowed out to her home in Emyn Uial and spoke with her.” I reached for the goblet that had come with the tray and drank deeply. “And I passed her test. Then, she lowered the floodwaters in Elendil’s Tomb, and I went inside.” I looked back to Aragorn. “That was where I found it. And of course, you know the rest of the story.”

            “What is it, then?” he asked, moving to sit across from me once more.

            I sighed, sitting back in the chair. “What it _is_ , is a powerful artifact left over from a time beyond recounting. It is the last of its kind.” I set my goblet down, drained. “It’s a Silithar, Aragorn.”

            For a moment he just gaped at me.

            “You’re not serious,” he croaked, when he had regained the ability to speak.

            “I’m deadly serious, _Otoro_ ,” I replied, pressing the tips of my fingers together. “Since when have I been known to joke about such matters? I’ve told you it’s a Silithar, and that’s what it is. I plucked it out of the tomb of the last High-King…to one day, in my lifetime, I would hope, restore his line.”

            Aragorn stared at me, perhaps waiting for me to continue. He’d always been uncomfortable with his lineage and the weight that it bore to be the last heir to Elendil’s dynasty. I had never been able to understand what made him so nervous about the south-kingdom. He ruled his people in the north…perhaps it was the fact that coming into Gondor would mean truly coming into the title of _king,_ and _king_ had a lot more weight to it than _chieftain_.

            “Lord Elrond spoke to me today,” he said, breaking me from my reverie. I nodded, signaled him to go on. “He told me of this artifact, and told me to send for you. He said that I would reveal to you if you thought me ready.”

            I pondered that. Then, I nodded. “Lord Elrond is a wise elf.” I stood, and moved over to my brother’s chest and pulled it open, drawing forth his old, worn sword. “Yes,” I murmured. “I may have measured it just right.”

            “Measured what?” he asked me, standing, crossing his arms.

            “Just the reach of your arm,” I answered, replacing the blade. “I made you that sword. I hope you haven’t forgotten.”

            “I haven’t,” he answered.

            “Well, measuring the reach of your arm is one matter,” I replied, getting to my feet and striding up to him. We stood, face-to-face. “Measuring the man is another. Tell me, what else did Lord Elrond impart to you?”

            He waited a moment to answer. “We…we spoke of…of matters. You revealed my name to the Council, and by doing so…” the last part seemed difficult to admit. “…perhaps you have mustered my courage.” He turned to me. “For as long as we can protect Frodo, as we swore, we will do just so.” His eyes glittered. “And when it is no longer the case…we shall break ranks and travel to Gondor.”

            For a moment I stood there, numb. It was the fulfillment, perhaps, of eighty-five years of life, unfolding in that one decision. No, not the unfolding, he wasn’t king yet. But finally, at least he accepted it, and we would both be fighting for the same cause. And it made all the difference.

            “A king shall return to the throne of Gondor,” I whispered. Then, I felt a wide smile splitting my cheeks and squeezed my brother so tightly he stumbled a little.

            “Do not forget your part in this, _Osellë_ ,” he told me, once my grip had loosened enough for him to hold me out at arm’s length. “You are my heiress, and therein the princess of Gondor until a son is born to me. And you are a smith of some skill. You forged my first sword, and you shall re-forge the blade of my fathers.”

            My mouth fell open like a hinge. “R-re-forge?” I stammered, shaking my head. “I can’t. There’s powerful… _powerful_ deep magic involved in that…”

            “You’re the only one I’ve ever met who could work Skarn ore,” he cut over me, clearly unwilling to hear _no_ for an answer. “And you were the one to pass Lady Gwindeth’s test and retrieve the Silithar. It’s only fitting you should be the one to remake the blade.”

            I opened my mouth for another protest, then, defeated, I closed it and simply nodded. He squeezed both of my shoulders, looked down into my eyes. “The forges are preparing now. They are only waiting for you.”

            I stared back at my chieftain, my _king,_ and I squared my shoulders. “I shall go at sundown.”

            “Very good,” he whispered.

            “As you say, Your Grace,” I murmured. He gave me a reproachful look, but I only lifted an eyebrow in response, grinning. “I got you. Don’t expect any special treatment. Just because you’re the king doesn’t mean you aren’t still my baby brother.” He might have protested, if I had stuck around long enough.


	14. XII: Concerning Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snár, though he looked thoroughly befuddled by my recent instructions, did as he was told. When the needle-thin blade was pressed into my hand, I looked down at the sword before I set my hand down, and painstakingly began to carve into it, the runes I had chosen.
> 
> Anar, I spelled out. Nányë Andúril i né Narsil i macil Elendilo. Lercuvanten i móli Mordórëo. Isil.
> 
> When I’d finished, I raised my head to look at Hemeldir. The grip was refitted with virgin leather, dyed black, soft and supple. “Fetch the scabbard,” I told Snár, my heart kicking into an unruly gallop. “Hemeldir, tell them we’re…ready.”

**XII: Concerning Dreams**

_October 26_

            I had barely enough time to return to my chambers, change into something more suitable, and put my hair up before dashing out of the House and sprinting across the bridge to the marketplace. Instead of turning left for the stables, I continued up on the north road, and slowed as I approached the forges.

            The heat washed into me as I walked into the furnaces, where some of the apprentices were poking the fire to keep it lively. They goggled at me as I entered, then quickly lowered their eyes.

            “Have the shards been brought?” I questioned, wanting to get immediately down to business.

            The head smith, Snár, brought me to a smooth table where the pieces had been laid along. I took in them all, silently ordered them in my head to know which ones would go first.

            “Hemeldir,” I spoke. He stepped forward slowly, almost hesitant. I gestured to the small bundle he held. “The Silithar.”

            Hemeldir set it down on the table, parting the soft purple velvet to uncover the glowing jewel.

            Tracing my fingers over it, I nodded, and _hmm_ ed. The smiths watched me as I went over the job in my head again.

            Finally, I looked up. “Snár, Hemeldir, I’ll need your services. The rest of you are excused.” Something in my tone made them scurry.

            I picked up the hilt, gripped at the leather. It was old and dry. I turned to Snár. “Fetch me a tailor to refit the grip.”

            When he had gone, I turned to Hemeldir. “Don’t strip the old handle off. I’ll need you to hold it in the flame while I work the Silithar.”

            That was the most any of the three of us said through the next seven hours. Hammers rang out against the walls, sweat was flicked from brows and eyes were tightened against shimmering heat and blinding fire.

            It must have been two o’clock in the morning, or thereabout when I pulled the red-hot blade from the furnaces and plunged it _hiss_ ing into the water. Slowly, I pulled it out and stared down the length of the sword.

            The blade glimmered like some sort of silver star. The kiss of Narsil would be feared once more in the world.

            _No. Not Narsil. Narsil was broken…this one needs a new name._

“Hemeldir,” I said softly. “Refit the grip, but don’t clasp it. I’ll only have it molding to one hand. Snár, heat the mithril pick and bring it to me.”

            Snár, though he looked thoroughly befuddled by my recent instructions, did as he was told. When the needle-thin blade was pressed into my hand, I looked down at the sword before I set my hand down, and painstakingly began to carve into it, the runes I had chosen.

            _Anar,_ I spelled out. _Nányë Andúril i né Narsil i macil Elendilo. Lercuvanten i móli Mordórëo._ _Isil._

            When I’d finished, I raised my head to look at Hemeldir. The grip was refitted with virgin leather, dyed black, soft and supple. “Fetch the scabbard,” I told Snár, my heart kicking into an unruly gallop. “Hemeldir, tell them we’re…ready.”

            Hemeldir stepped outside. I heard his soft voice and the others conversing. I could only imagine what Aragorn looked like, and smiled.

            Snár returned with the scabbard, and carefully I picked the sword up by the pommel and sheathed it with a satisfying _ring_. “You did good work, my lady,” whispered Snár, and I could only let out a quick breath in anticipation. “I only hope so. Let’s go, they’re waiting.”

            I imagine I looked like hell when I emerged. Aragorn later told me I was like an angel of fire, which is the sweet brotherly way of him saying I looked like hell. I had the scabbard in my hands and felt all the eyes on me when I held it out to Aragorn, bowed my head.

            He tapped my shoulder gently, asked me, “Does it have a name?”

            _He…He thought the same as I did…_ I could only grin. “A new blade needs a new name.” My brother, my _king_ closed his hand about the hilt, and hell if it didn’t look like it had been made to his hands. “It is Andúril. Flame of the West, reforged from the shards of Narsil.”

            Aragorn stared at the hilt in his hand. Looked up at me. Then, he pulled it forth into the night.

            Andúril rang mightily through the valleys, reflected the stars and the moon with an unearthly glimmer like a ghost. I watched as he proclaimed to all gathered: “Sauron will not have forgotten the sword of Elendil.” He tried a sudden practice cut. Several leaped back in surprise, and _ohh_ ed and _ahh_ ed appreciatively at the _whoosh_ it made. “The blade that was broken shall return to Minas Tirith.”

            _Minas Tirith._ It was a whispered promise I could almost grasp.

            I stepped down, wearily wiped a brow as Lord Elrond began to speak. His words went in my one ear and out the other, and soon a soft hand was pulling at mine. “Come,” whispered Arwen, and gratefully I stepped after her.

            I yawned as we crossed the first bridge. “What time is it?”

            “Past midnight,” she said softly, even though the river was a roar under us. “I’ll see to it you aren’t woken in the morning.”

            I yawned again, mumbled a thanks, and was captured by a sudden feather-light brush against my shoulder. I jumped, thoughts going instantly to that man in my dreams and his electrifying touches. I frowned deeply, trying to cover it up, but Arwen had already seen. “Is anything the matter?”

            I shrugged. “Just…some dreams. Lately. You know… _those_ kinds.”

            Arwen nodded slowly, her eyes widening. “ _Oh_. I know. Yes, I used to have those too.”

            “Mine are odd,” I protested, catching up to her with the long loping stride I’d picked up from Aragorn. “A-”

            “Faceless man, who never speaks and never looks you in the eye?” she stopped to look at me, and nodded when my jaw popped open. “Yes. I think we all have those, sometimes.”

            I scowled, and followed after her. “But…did you ever see who he was?”

            “I did,” she said, shrugging. “One day, he raised his head and he had eyes like ice.”

            I paused. “Aragorn?”

            “Yes,” she repeated, patiently. “Aragorn.”

            “So…what?” I trotted after her again. “This dream is supposed to eventually reveal my soul mate? I told you I was done with all of that, you know-”

            “Gléoláf,” she turned. We were on the steps to the House. “I know. You’ve said, countless times, you’re done with love, and I believe you. I also happen to believe that you probably have been asking this man to show you who he is.”

            My jaw clenched tightly. “ _Maybe_ …”

            Her full pink lips curved slightly. She laid a hand on my arm, then, in a sweet sisterly way. “Don’t push it. Just let it happen and you’ll see him eventually.” Her eyes still held that little mischievous gleam. _You think it’s going to be Legolas or someone and I’m going to find twoo wuv?_ I fought down my snort, and nodded evenly.

            “Good night,” she murmured, and turned into the doors.

            I supposed it was good enough advice; a different approach to try. I bathed quickly and changed into a soft wool shirt, clambered into bed and dozed off in wait of my shadow lover, the man with no face.

            But he didn’t come to me that night, or for many a night after.


	15. XIII: Necessary Ingredients

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We all will look after the hobbits,” he said, with a chuckle. “But you, I was going to ask you one thing in particular.”
> 
> “What’s that?” I questioned.
> 
> He looked at me, said quite seriously: “Watch. Watch everyone. You can read them. Watch them.”
> 
> I nodded slowly, to myself, to him. Yesterday I was a child. Today I am a woman. And tomorrow…tomorrow, I will be old.

**XIII: Necessary Ingredients**

_November 15_

            It was an understatement to say I was vaguely miffed my brother made me stay in Rivendell to babysit a few hobbits.

            It was also probably an understatement to say I was pissed as hell that he was going off wraith-hunting with the twins, leaving me to do what he called “oversee preparations” which was his way of waffling around saying _keep an eye on those hobbits._

            The bloody banshees had, albeit indirectly, caused that little Ring-shaped scar on my hand, hadn’t they? I should hunt them too. I’d pleaded that to him first, then Elladan and Elrohir, then Lord Elrond and Glorfindel and Gandalf and even Erestor. But in the end, Aragorn and They of the Identical Garments had departed in the early hours, leaving me to babysit a few hobbits.

            My foul mood was only darkened when the handmaids woke me up with their tittering and whispering in the early morning, and further when they started asking if I wanted my hair brushed, or a milk bath, or a gown.

            “Since when have I ever wanted a gown?” I spat at them, “Get out, _out!_ ” They had scurried into the wings, giggling harder than ever, and I was at a total loss as to what was so bloody funny. Not knowing what was going on made me scowl even darker, and I dressed in a pair of grey wool breeches and a fur-lined surcoat to go down to the Hall of Fire.

            The hobbits turned when I threw the doors open and began a cheerful greeting in their four-part soprano, but something in my face made their voices die and their shoulders pull up quaveringly to their chins. I made a beeline across the hall, boot heels snapping briskly, finally reaching Legolas and grabbing him by the shoulder to whirl him around.

            “What the _hell_ is going on in this place?” I hissed, eyes darting side to side at the gazes politely averted, leaning in closer. “People won’t stop goggling at me. Have I sprouted a tail or some such?” I took a peek behind me, just to be sure.

            When I turned back to him his face had gone a very dark red color, and he started to stammer, “I…I…”

            It was at that point that Arwen was stepping over hurriedly (though with her, it was more like _gliding_ ) and putting her hand to my shoulder to whisper smoothly into my ear: “Gléoláf, hush, come with me and I can explain-”

            Gimli the dwarf chose that moment to come strutting into the hall, thumbs hooked into his belt and whistling some old dwarven tune as he approached. He nodded and said something to Boromir as he passed, something that gave the Gondorim lord significant pause. I had only a brief second to wonder what he’d said before he passed Legolas, Arwen, and I, all in a huddle, and say in a hearty booming voice that sounded un _bear_ ably loud to my ears, “Ah, the Ranger Princess!” he gave a sweeping bow, beaming. “My congratulations on you and the steward.”

            The Hall of Fire had never felt so hot. Now everyone was looking, and some were beginning to whisper, and something inside of me put all of the pieces together- handmaids asking me if I wanted to be primped and preened and only giggling more when I banished them, wide-eyed stares, whispers behind cupped hands- and whatever it was, as soon as I understood, snapped.

            “Me?” I stammered, incredulous, looking over and gaping at him. “ _Him?_ ” I shook my head rapidly, wishing desperately for a sword or a knife or _some_ thing with a hilt, my hand flexing rapidly, fingers twitching. “No, no, no, no, no-”

            “Look how red she gets,” chuckled the dwarf, elbowing one of the Dale-landers who stood beside him, and I tried to take a breath and compose myself, knowing that blushing and stuttering wasn’t going to help my case any. “Master Dwarf, you must be mistaken; there isn’t anything between the steward- _prince_ and I in the slightest.” I shot him a glare and he straightened abruptly, cleared his throat and shook his head so jerkily his onyx hair snapped like a flag on a ship’s mast. “Nothing.”

            “You southrons,” snorted the dwarf, “so strange. Making a show out of things.” The twinkle in his eye was almost uncle-ish in a way Lord Elrond had never been with me when he said, “none of us here are in a position to judge true love.”

            “ _It’s not true love!_ ” I shouted, and I only realized how loud it had been when the sudden hush fell over the hall, and everyone turned to stare. Too late, I let the ice flood my veins and carry me into a cold calm. “Lord Boromir and I…are comrades. Members of a fellowship. Shield-brothers, if you will, never lovers. _Never_.” Tersely, I spun on my heel and exited the room, barreled through the main hall and out the door, marched straight to the stables before I realized they had taken me there.

            “Saddle Beowulf,” I spat, and the stablehands scurried inside to carry out the orders, leaving Ladrochan to look at me in bewilderment.

            “Pass along the message,” I spat at him, “whoever’s said I’m fucking the Gondorim I’ll personally hunt down and use for target practice.” I snatched the reins from the stablehands as they reemerged with my destrier, snorting and pawing the ground, probably thinking it was time for a fight with the hasty saddling he had gotten. I swung up onto his back by myself and dug my heels into his side, and we shot off over the roads and out of the valley.

            Beowulf kept up a full gallop for a good few miles. After I had followed the main road a long way out of Rivendell, I slowed him to a walk and let him drink from a tributary stream of the Bruinen. I nudged him again after a short rest and steered him up onto a bluff overlooking the main road, and followed a lesser-known trail up through the trees.

            _Fucking the Gondorim._ Some of my blistering fury gone, it was a little bit easier to think, being calmer. _Where would anyone get that idea?_ I shook my head to myself, looking at the reins in my hands. “Someone has a wild imagination,” I sighed aloud, and Beowulf tossed his head, whickering in agreement. “You saw yourself how we get along.” I patted the black stallion’s lathery neck as we continued to plod along.

            Before long, we reached the spot again. I’d seen it a few times before, but I couldn’t deny it still held some sense of wonder to it, the spot where an adventure had truly begun.

            “Hello, Tom,” I murmured, looking around at the grotesque stone statues. “Bert. William.”

            Not only had an adventure begun here, for dear old Bilbo, but even though it seemed like a distant nightmare Glorfindel had found us here and I had stolen Asfaloth away and ridden with hell on my heels to save Frodo. And I had, at the price of that little Ring-shaped scar.

            _And on top of it all, I’ve volunteered for round two._ The thought brought a wry smile to my face, and I dismounted to sit down at the foot of one of the troll statues and tuck my knees up against my chest, after taking the time to remove the tack from my horse. Beowulf whickered happily and lay down to roll in the grass.

            I sat and he grazed for a while, in companionable silence. _It couldn’t have been the hobbits,_ I decided, absently pulling up fistfuls around me like my horse was clipping with his teeth. _They’re too young. That kind of thing still makes them snigger. And it couldn’t have been Gimli either, he meant well enough. Aragorn…_ It didn’t make any sense for Aragorn to say something like that, since he was so hell-bent on no man ever touching me in the first place. Legolas was a blushing maid and everyone else I thought of just didn’t make any sense. I blew an exasperated sigh, shaking my head. I had a sudden thought. _Boromir?_ He hadn’t spoken out until I had prompted him, and the rumor flying about that he and I were having some sort of illicit affair definitely didn’t bode well on my already-shaky reputation as Princess of the Granite Throne, but there was still a blank, considering that the same damages could be applied to _his_ public image.

            It was then that soft hoofbeats came through the trees, and I looked up to see a muzzle nudging in through the trees. A soft grey coat followed, and I maintained a neutral expression as Glorfindel swung gracefully off of his saddle, leading Asfaloth to where I sat, Beowulf laying next to me with his legs folded under him as he nibbled on my hair. Upon their approach he got to his hooves and touched noses with Asfaloth, snuffling softly in greeting.

            “I take it my uncle wants to lecture me?” I questioned coldly, an eyebrow quirking up.

            “They found who started the rumor, if it interests you,” he said, ignoring my question and sitting cross-legged across from me in the grass. “It was a few of the servants. They heard from one of the stablehands you two had been alone in the barn, and got the wrong idea. Idle gossip. Nothing more.”

            “Idle gossip,” I spat it out like a curse. “Glorfindel, I’m in line for three separate nations, and a rumor comes up that I’ve been tumbling in the hayloft with some arrogant cur from Minas Tirith?” My nose wrinkled at the thought. Not only did I hate him, but he was probably furry like a bear, or something. “It’s damaging, it’s wrong, and someone here needs to see the consequences of their actions!”

            “They’ve been reprimanded,” said Glorfindel.

            “ _Reprimanded,_ ” I gave a wry snort, rolling my eyes, getting to my feet and pacing about the remains of a fire pit. “I knew you could be infuriating, but I didn’t take you for stupid. _Some_ one drew the conclusion that I was fucking with some foreign dignitary like a back-alley whore. Do you have any idea how that is, people looking at you like you’ve leapt from a circus tent, and you don’t even know what you’ve done to make it so? All you know, is you’re getting looks like you’ve sprouted dragon’s wings, and you say they’ve gotten reprimanded? What, has someone slapped them on the wrist? ‘Bad handmaids?’ That’s wrong. You know it’s wrong. It’s _crooked_. And it’s wrong.”

            Glorfindel sighed, looking at his hands, folded neatly in his lap. “You know…how our system works…we can’t punish those who speak freely, that is a right-”

            “A right some take excessively for granted,” I spat, turning on him, wild-eyed. “They should have their tongues out for that kind of talk.”

            “Gléoláf,” said Glorfindel, his brows knitting together in something that resembled horror, but I kept going. “Or warn them of that, at least? Free speech has its limits, _ev_ erything has its limits, and I know it’s so because this is _sure_ as hell not anarchy.”

            “We can examine the documents of elven principles,” he said, getting to his feet and laying a hand on my shoulder. “Or we can go back. Your uncle didn’t say anything about wanting to speak to you, but Mithrandir did.”

            I took a breath, closed my eyes and let it out slowly. “Right. Gandalf. I’ll…I’ll come. Fine.”

            I took a moment to saddle Beowulf again, and climbed up onto his back to ride towards Rivendell as the sun began to set. It was full dark and quite chilly by the time we got back. I let Glorfindel lead me up to the Last Homely House. There were a few nervous glances here and there, but for the most part eyes were averted.

            I went inside without a word and walked down the halls until I found the door to Gandalf’s chambers and knocked. “Come in,” he said, and I opened the door and stepped inside.

            He had his pipe in his hand. Indicating at one of the chairs, he said, “Sit.”

            I closed the door behind me, nodded my head briefly and sat down in the chair, crossing my arms and staring down into the flames.

            “I heard of your…tirade, earlier,” he said, lightly.

            I sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Yes…I…I shouldn’t have…made a fuss of it.” I shook my head.

            “That is not what I have called you here to discuss, though,” he said, taking a long puff on his pipe. It was another moment before he began. “Within this diverse company, all of us possess our own strengths and weaknesses.” He looked over at me, clear blue eyes piercing. “You are a fair mind, a sharp wit, a good sword.” I shrugged, trying to be modest. “But your temper could best you if you aren’t careful. Your moods are like storms, volatile and fierce. Quick as they come, the most violent ones will be gone. And then the slower ones will brew and rumble and finally break, and perhaps those are the ones we should be inclined to fear.”

            I crossed my legs, stared ahead. “They call me the Wolf-tamer,” I said, absently, stroking the brooch at my throat. “To the elves I’m just a child, and they probably think me one too, now, just a little girl who wants to play at war.” My hand, the ring-scarred hand, tightened into a fist. “I’ve seen more war than some of the eons-old people here. I don’t play wars, and I don’t start them. I finish them.” I turned my head slowly to Gandalf, and he nodded for a long while before he spoke again.

            “Your role in the Company,” he said, “I think, will be an important one. We are all necessary ingredients, as Master Samwise told it.” A smile quirked at my lips. “You have come to follow your brother- your king- to the city of his throne.” I nodded slowly. “You have come to follow him. Now, I would ask-”

            I held up a hand. “Give me one guess. Look after the hobbits?”

            “We all will look after the hobbits,” he said, with a chuckle. “But you, I was going to ask you one thing in particular.”

            “What’s that?” I questioned.

            He looked at me, said quite seriously: “Watch. Watch everyone. You can read them. Watch them.”

            I nodded slowly, to myself, to him. _Yesterday I was a child. Today I am a woman. And tomorrow…tomorrow, I will be old._


	16. XIV: Old Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas pondered that for a moment. Then, he shrugged. “Perhaps they’re not looking for answers. Maybe they’re wishing back to the ages where heroes were golden and full of light in their righteous purpose.”
> 
> I snorted. “That’s the winners writing history. Everyone has a dark stripe, even you, even if yours is like a little pinprick.”
> 
> “What’s yours?” he asked me, as I found the tailor’s and forced the door open.
> 
> “I don’t have dark stripes,” I said, gesturing him in ahead of me. “My infinite black abyss has two little pieces of gold on either side.” I gestured, then shrugged. “And I’m still not sure if that’s goodness in me, or just my hair.”

**XIV: Old Tales**

_December 14_

            The eve of our departure was perhaps a fortnight away when the first snow drifted over Rivendell. I remember how it used to enchant me as a child, the little flakes floating down like fairies or little drops of magic, but I’d been to enough mountains to have developed a grudging tolerance for the stuff, so long as I could be somewhere I didn’t have to deal with it falling on me.

            I had to smile, though, watching the hobbits rush out to play in the drifts as soon as the ground was covered. Sam had told me a few days past that it rarely snowed in the Shire and to see something like this must have been nothing short of awe-inspiring for them. I could take delight in their delight, and in the garlands of holly and pine that wrapped the halls this time of year. I was fond of the scent.

            I was standing at a window in one of the larger corridors off of the entrance hall, wearing my bone-white mantle with the black fur at the edges, hair braided as always and a mug of chocolate not far out of reach. I did love a good cup of the stuff, and that along with the fires always burning and the pine and holly and general good mood made me a bit of a stickler for winter.

            Before long, though, I turned and made my way into the Hall of Fire, and sat near one of the blazing furnaces, deep in quiet thought. All preparations were complete and it would be time for us to move out in less than a month, less than _half_ a month. I blinked, shook my head, contemplated again the insanity of the whole idea, but there was no backing out of it now.

            I sighed, looked to the cuff of my sleeve and recalled the orders I had dropped off at the tailor’s a few weeks ago. They were probably ready now, and if nothing else I could always walk and pick them up myself.

            As I stole out of the Last Homely House, I spotted Prince Legolas trotting lightly over the drifts towards me, dark hair bobbing but somehow never getting mussed. He looked quite untroubled with the cold when he arrived by my side, and I spared him a brief nod. “Legolas,” I greeted him, feeling that if we were marching into Hell together we may as well be on a first-name basis.

            “Where are you off to, Princess?” he questioned me, and I had to bite back a sigh. _I suppose the rules of society still apply._ “Just picking up an order from the tailor’s, a bit of a walk.” I shrugged, and began, tugging my scarf around my neck and bowing into the biting winds.

            “Would you like company?” he questioned, following me down, the soles of his feet barely sinking into the light crust of snow, making me feel like a cumbersome foal just learning to stand beside him. I spared him another shrug. “So long as you call me Gléoláf. My given name will do.”

            “I’d heard your uncle had tried to rename you when you were young,” he quipped, falling into step beside me.

            I barked out a sudden laugh. “That’s right! Béma, he tried to call me Lindethiel. A proper elvish name.” I shook my head. “But I wouldn’t have it. Stubborn Rohirrim I was. Am. I wouldn’t have anything less than Gléoláf, and soon after that I think he gave up on me.” I sighed, shaking my head. “My uncle and I get on. He’s never told me he loves me. Not even that he _likes_ me. Point being, he tolerates me and I tolerate him, and what he’d really love is to see me married off.”

            “Is _that_ why he and my father are in cohorts to make a match of us?” he blew a soft sigh. “I keep getting letters by bird suggesting how to woo a certain niece of the lord.”

            “They think to get us together that way?” Suddenly, I was overcome with snorts. _Silly elves._ “Well, I suppose they could dream. It is rather a convenient match, for them, don’t you think? A second son and a cumbersome niece married off. Out of sight, out of mind.”

            “This growing shadow weighs on them both,” he sighed, strolling along beside me. “They want to see joy, and they forget in these times what love is and how it happens.”

            I sighed back at him, sticking my hands into my pockets and bowing into the winds. For a moment, silence.

            “Everyone these days,” I said, finally. “This time of year, always, but now especially everyone turns to the old days for answers. They say history repeats itself…” I retucked my scarf. “The last time we won three thousand years’ peace with a fair few deaths and a bit of dumb, blind luck.”

            Legolas pondered that for a moment. Then, he shrugged. “Perhaps they’re not looking for answers. Maybe they’re wishing back to the ages where heroes were golden and full of light in their righteous purpose.”

            I snorted. “That’s the winners writing history. Everyone has a dark stripe, even you, even if yours is like a little pinprick.”

            “What’s yours?” he asked me, as I found the tailor’s and forced the door open.

            “I don’t have dark stripes,” I said, gesturing him in ahead of me. “My infinite black abyss has two little pieces of gold on either side.” I gestured, then shrugged. “And I’m still not sure if that’s goodness in me, or just my hair.”

            That drew a laugh from the elven prince, as I found the requested garments and inspected them, before tucking the little wrapped parcel under my arm and taking my leave.

            “I meant to ask you for a while,” he spoke, as we turned back, brown paper crinkling under my arm and wetting as flakes of snow whipped at it. “What made you come along, if your dark side is so…prevalent?”

            “Well,” I said simply, stepping concisely over a drift (one that he walked right over on feather-light feet). “You ever heard someone say that if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself?”

            He laughed all the way back to the Last Homely House.

            “I must say, I doubted at first Aragorn’s complete trust in you,” he admitted, quite graciously holding the door open for me. “But you’re quite…”

            “Painfully honest?” I supplied, before I snorted. “Yes, I know, you don’t have to flatter me.”

            “Most women I’ve met liked the flattery,” he told me, following me in.

            “Well, there are no women like me,” I told him, offering him my hand. “Only me.”

            He chuckled lightly, before we shook, and he stepped back a bit. But he didn’t move away, frowned very slightly. “What you said earlier…about winners, writing the history?”

            I nodded again. “The winners always write the history.” Another wry smile. “That’s why we all think the good ones win.”

            Legolas gave me this long searching look. Sensing contemplation, I said softly, “We never realize the true meaning of that until we’re faced with the question of who will write about this war…us, our children…or them?” I shrugged a little, and offered, before I turned and left him, “We could be the heroes, or the villains of the next old tales. That all depends on who wins. Who gets to write them.”


	17. XV: A Long and Toilsome Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I couldn’t argue with that logic. And, well, he had tried to apologize, at least. So I uncrossed my arms, went down and sat at my small table where he was setting his burdens down. He poured for me first, and I looked up, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Lord Boromir, are you trying to get me drunk?”
> 
> He looked back at me, before a devilish grin broke out and he quirked his own brows, told me, “Seeing demons in the shadows, my lady? It’s a bit early for that.”
> 
> Oh. He was a feisty one.

**XV: A Long and Toilsome Road**

_December 24_

            I spent my last night in Rivendell alone. I knew Aragorn would be staying the night with Arwen, and the others doubtless had their own letters to write and farewells to say.

            So it came as a surprise, needless to say, when there was a rap at my door when it was nearing midnight, and even moreso when I answered and found the hulking figure of His Majesty, the Steward-Prince, standing there looking actually quite awkward, with a bottle of what appeared to be Dorwinion red in one hand and two cups in the other.

            “I was just with the hobbits,” he explained, pushing past me inside, leaving me standing quite affronted at the door. “Some festival they always have, this time of year. Yule, they seemed quite cheerful about it, they were giving each other gifts…” he trailed off, and turned to look at me, realizing my silence was icy and my arms were crossed in front of my chest.

            “Look, if this is about our last, ahm, conversation, I’m…” the next word seemed to pain him greatly. “…sorry. That words were said. At any rate, if we’re going to be marching into hell together we may as well be on speaking terms.”

            I couldn’t argue with that logic. And, well, he _had_ tried to apologize, at least. So I uncrossed my arms, went down and sat at my small table where he was setting his burdens down. He poured for me first, and I looked up, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Lord Boromir, are you trying to get me drunk?”

            He looked back at me, before a devilish grin broke out and he quirked his own brows, told me, “Seeing demons in the shadows, my lady? It’s a bit early for that.”

            Oh. He was a feisty one.

            I drank out of my glass, drained it halfway before I set it down. “No demons,” I said, “Just veiled intentions. Being from the court, you must be a _master_ of subterfuge, o steward-prince.”

            Smirking almost smugly, he hooked a foot around my calf under the table and pulled it closer. “There’s nothing subtle about this, o shield-maid, in practice I believe you rather brazen.”

            “Ah, not a maid,” I quipped, drinking again, and his eyebrows lifted a little. “Saucy wench,” he said softly, and I couldn’t help a rather toothy grin.

            _Does he ever relax like this at home?_ I had to wonder. I’d never met quite an equally-witty man, save perhaps Aragorn, but our verbal spars were rarely this… _titillating_. “Can’t help but wonder if you’re a bit inebriated already,” I offered, gesturing at him with the cup in my hand. “That pole that’s always been up your ass seems to be out on leave.”

            “I might have partook in a few toasts,” he said lightly, and I snorted, already feeling the alcohol going to my head.

            “Partaken,” I corrected. He groaned, other foot having somehow wiggled out of the boot he’d had on to rub lightly against my ankle.

            “Don’t correct my grammar,” he whined, “You sound like my brother, and I don’t like to think of my brother in this sort of position.”

            “Oh, pardons me,” I said, dramatically affronted, laying a hand over my heart. “I understand perhaps all too well.”

            Boromir snorted, and went to pour himself another glass, his foot still making friendly with my ankle.

            “You’re not very Gondorim, are you?” I questioned, and he looked at me questioningly, raising his eyebrows, in the middle of knocking another glass back. “I can see it in there somewhere,” I offered, eyes narrowing. “You’ve got in you, I know. You may have hidden it under propriety and courtesy but you’re Rohirrim at heart.”

            He looked at me, his mouth half-quirked up in a smile, before he finished off the cup and setting it down with a shrug.

            “You’re supposed to be arrogant clean-nosers overly concerned with propriety,” I said, shrugging back at him. “Are you the exception to the rule, or have I heard wrong?”

            The smile faded. He looked at the surface of the table, his foot ceasing its motion. “You don’t understand. You don’t know what it is to have the weight of a nation on you. You _can’t_ understand.”

            I gave him a sad, sympathetic smile. “Contrarily, my lord, I believe I understand it all too well.” I pulled my leg free and was surprised to be disappointed that he didn’t go after it. I liked him playful.

            “No,” he said, brow furrowing in his concentration, thinking through the alcohol. “You don’t know what it’s…you can’t _relax_. Everything you do, _I_ do, is for Gondor, and I can’t let her go even for a second…”

            “I think you could,” I said softly, folding my hands together. “If you would just let go, and live a little.” My foot chased after his, toes pressing lightly into the arch before I stroked it suggestively against the bare bit of ankle where his leggings hemmed off.

            He pulled away suddenly, standing up with such force that the chair went grating back against the floor before it tipped over and fell with a clatter.

            “I’m not bedding down with some usurper’s slut,” he spat at me, before tromping out and slamming the door shut behind him.

            I sat there a moment in silence, ducked down under the table and snorted. “You forgot your boot.” I left it there, and went to put my chair back to rights, sighing heavily at the marks in the wood.

            _Usurper’s slut._ It’s not like I could hold much against him. My record was no better than a common whore’s; I’d bedded men beyond count and could recall only the names of the prominent ones.

            I sat back down at the table, and spent the remainder of the night alone with my thoughts.

Well, maybe I wasn’t _totally_ alone. The Dorwinion vintage proved quite good company, after another glass or two.

            When at last I collapsed into bed I doubt I could have told left from right.

_December 25_

            I woke the next morning, head pounding out a rhythm on my skull. Allowing one brief groan, I sat up and pushed the hangover away, slithering out of bed to get my sorry suicidal ass dressed and ready for this mission.

            I pulled on my leggings, black as sin, and the boots after. My white linen shirt was next, topped in a dark green vest and a heavy olive jerkin. I had sturdy braces that would withstand the beatings of bowstrings for months without repair, gloves with fingers on them, gloves without fingers on them, a woolen scarf and a hooded cloak, with a jacket in my pack.

            Wearing all of that inside was sweltering, but doubtless I’d get cold of all things when I actually got outside.

            I belted my sword up onto my hip, slung my quiver around my back, attached appropriate knives and shouldered my bag before trotting out into the halls, stepping down the corridors with boot heels clicking before I reached the open doors and came down and out before the Last Homely House.

            For once Aragorn was punctual, and when I got down he pressed a kiss on my brow, and Legolas and I exchanged nods. The hobbits were milling around Bill the pony, considerably fatter than when I’d acquired him, and Gandalf was deep in discussion with Elrond.

            “We going yet?” I asked, and my brother laid a hand on my shoulder. “Any minute now.”

            I looked up, caught Arwen’s eye. She looked like she was on the verge of tears, and I flashed her a sympathetic smile, patting Aragorn on the small of the back and trying to convey somehow that I would keep him safe.

            Or try, at least. Trying might be all I could do, on this sort of mission. Quest. Thing.

            When my eyes swept down I caught Boromir, looking about as miserable as I had talked myself out of being, horribly hung-over and terribly pensive.

            I didn’t have much time to mull it over. Gandalf was stepping down, and my uncle was waxing poetic.

            “The Ringbearer is setting out on the Quest of Mount Doom,” he declared. “On you who travel with him, no oath nor bond is laid to go further than you will.” He looked proudly about at us all, the closest to passing for heroes these days. “Farewell. Hold to your purpose. May the blessings of Elves and Men and all Free Folk go with you.”

Gandalf cleared his throat, obviously not wanting to create another attempt for a speech. “The Fellowship awaits the Ringbearer.”

            Frodo turned slowly, began to walk out, and we all fell in behind him. “Mordor, Gandalf,” I heard him whisper. “Is it left or right?”

            “Left,” Gandalf said, giving me a reproachful look as I snickered.

            And miraculously, we left for Mordor without too much pomp and circumstance, which was (mercifully) just how I liked it.


	18. XVI: Ghosts that Haunt Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I yawned hugely, rubbed my eyes and was beginning to doze when I heard a soft howl.
> 
> My ears might have perked. I straightened, squinting, looking to Legolas, who also looked more alert. “You hear…?”
> 
> He nodded, and it came again, louder. Aragorn sat up with a start beside me. “Wolves,” he said, and I stood slowly and walked to the borders of our little camp, scowling and scanning the prairie side to side for signs of the creatures who’d taught me the ways of the wild.

**XVI: Ghosts That Haunt Us**

Year 3019, Third Life Age of Middle-Earth

_January 15_

            “Happy New Year!” Pippin chirped at me, when I woke that morning. I paused, slightly confused. “Your New Years’, anyway. Not by Shire reckoning.”

            I blinked. “Our New Years’ is a fortnight gone.”

            Pippin was only momentarily thrown off, just shrugged a little and grinned at me. “Good morning, then.”

            “Morning,” I said back, stretching up to the sky. Something cracked and I groaned softly, coming back down.

            “Old age?” quipped Legolas, kneeling by the fire with an impish look. “Hush, you,” I muttered, nudging at his unguarded rear with the toe of my boot. “You’re the oldest one here. Second-oldest,” I corrected, glancing across the fire to Gandalf. The wizard had not heard, though, and if he had he gave no recognition, just continued to brood at the flames and puff on his pipe.

            I stretched again, rocked lightly on the soles of my feet before setting off for the river to splash a bit of cold water onto my face and fill my canteen for the long march. Aragorn was already edgy, considering the ground he could have covered on his own, but I was actually enjoying having the company along. Anyone who could crack ‘ _I don’t trust anything that bleeds for five days and doesn’t die_ ’ after listening to me bitching about my cramps was worthy companionship, at least where I was concerned.

            I knelt by the brook and stuck my face into the rush, shaking my head side to side before coming up, gasping at the cold. It woke me up sharply, and I blinked rapidly before uncorking my canteen and filling it in the clean sweep of the water.

            I looked to the side to see Boromir, kneeling there frozen, like I’d caught him staring. “What’s so interesting?” I questioned, “I didn’t forget to button my vest, did I?” He stood up so quickly I thought for a moment something had bit him on the arse, and retreated like he’d been burned.

            “Well then,” I muttered, returning to my wash and wear, and giving it little thought.

            Looking back it’s one of the things I _wish_ I had overanalyzed, because it would have saved everyone a lot of stress later. Naturally, though, in true idiotic fashion, I paid it no heed and went happily on with my life. I tend to brood more when I’m in a bad mood, and it always seems counter-intuitive, knowing the only time shit ever got done was when I was pissed off.

            “What’s the plan?” I questioned, re-entering camp a few minutes later, screwing back the top to my canteen.

            “We must hold this course west of the Misty Mountains for forty days,” Gandalf spoke, rising slowly, looking out over the collection of rocks where we took our respite and striding up to higher ground. I followed slowly, Gimli and Legolas trailing in our wake. “If our luck holds, the Gap of Rohan will still be open to us. From there our road turns east. To Mordor.”

            “Gap of Rohan’s a treacherous place, these days,” I muttered, crossing my arms and watching him sit down, before turning in a restless circle and growling my displeasure, “Oh, would we’d brought horses. I can fly on a horse.”

            “Not all of us are such accomplished riders,” remarked the elf, behind me, and I turned to see him smile. He nodded down to where the hobbits loitered, my brother, and the steward. “Go down. Don’t trouble yourself with the vain wishes of a displaced Rohirrim.” At that, I cracked a slight smile. “I’ll watch.”

            Sighing, I nodded, and made my way down among the rocks, weaving in and out of the outcroppings and shrubs growing on the old, bleached boulders, lain tumbled about like children’s blocks, like a well of white blood on the scrubby yellow plains.

            The first few weeks had been quiet. We had watched one another with suspicious eyes, and kept to our own, if we had our own. Otherwise, we kept to ourselves. Perhaps a few days following our departure I saw the men grow restless, biting and snapping at one another like a pack of ill-tempered wolves, going off at the smallest provocation, and oh, how they loved to wheedle each other. It fell to Gandalf and me to try and keep their reins in check, because hell if the hobbits even knew what was going on and hell if Gimli would ever dream to make himself useful (Béma forbid!)

            For a few days, they held desperately on- to inhibitions, expectations, marks of society. Then, one night, Aragorn reached for Legolas and we all politely turned our heads to the furious scuffle that followed, and from there the snapping and the biting seemed to cease. His High and Mighty Stewardness still acted like a sullen brat, but one sullen brat was far more manageable than three, and with my brother and the elf in their better sated spirits it improved the company morale drastically and somehow got us all on the road to acting like we knew each other.

            I realized I was the only woman. There were stares, constantly, in their varying sorts. The calculating kind, the curious kind, the humored kind, the warm kind…the hungry kind. I felt the eyes like spears, piercing all the layers of my garment and thinking fervently of bare skin. Sometimes it stayed a long time, and I stopped, turned and caught him looking.

            I held Boromir’s eyes until he looked away, and when I strode swiftly past him I murmured, “I’m not putting out for some steward’s brat.”

            Nearly three weeks gone now, and we were on our way, perhaps. To becoming a true fellowship.

            “What am I looking at here?” I took a seat by Aragorn, watching Boromir face Merry and Pippin with their whimsical daggers in hand, sword arm outstretched. I eyed the obvious experience in his grip, the scars around his knuckles and the obvious ease at the wrist. “He could send them flying awful casually.”

            “Let him be, they’re fine,” Aragorn said back, sticking his pipe back into his mouth and drawing long on it. “He’s just teaching them a few moves. They asked.” He sighed, blowing smoke out onto the air. “Awful fond of him, those two. And he of them.”

            “Two, one, five,” spoke the Gondorim, nodding approvingly as Pippin blocked the forms. “Good, very good.”

            “Move your feet,” said Aragorn.

            “Go for the balls,” I said, and grinned as the two started to splutter and double over. Boromir turned, eyebrows furrowing crossly. “Would you mind? I’m trying to teach.”

            “Good lesson, though,” I countered, “You go for the balls and they’re on their knees. It’s an organ; it’s like being kicked in the heart, if your heart didn’t have a ribcage over it.”

            Boromir scowled at me, mouth working like he was chewing something unpleasant, before saying, “You don’t give a fair fight, do you? If I had to guess…”

            I shrugged lightly, raising my eyebrows. “We don’t train for fair fights in these times, if we’re wise. We don’t get them.” Boromir eyed me a moment longer, before he turned back to the two hobbits, resuming his stance. “Come on, then. You look good, Pippin.”

            “Thanks!”

            “Here, faster.”

            Aragorn shot me an amused glance, from the side. “Someone needs a nap.”

            “He always needs a nap.”

            “I wasn’t talking about him.”

            I turned at him with a scowl, lip turning down at the corner and one brow furrowing. “You’re playing with fire, Aragorn, and you’ll burn yourself if you aren’t careful.”

            “Someone hasn’t had a good lay in weeks,” he teased, smirking through his pipe, which I promptly yanked from his mouth and tossed aside. “Stop smoking, little brother, it kills you.”

            He went down and picked it up, eyeing me almost defiantly. “We’re all dying, aren’t we?”

            “Someone needs a nap,” I poked.

            “Aaah!” Pippin’s sudden cry of startled pain made me turn, reaching instinctively for a knife, but I relaxed slightly when I realized it was only a strike gone awry, and Boromir was stepping forward to make sure he was right. “Sorry!”

            Pippin winced and struck out with a foot that nailed him in the shin (“Ah!”) and he and Merry together bowled into the Gondorim (“Get him!”) and took him to the ground.

            “For the Shire!” Pippin yelled, and I started to laugh, along with Aragorn, and even Boromir as the three wrestled on the ground. “You missed, boys.”

            “Hold him, Merry!”

            Aragorn stood, and made his way to the scuffle. “Gentlemen, that’s enough.” In a flash the hobbits turned, grabbed his legs and swept him down onto the ground, and I started to laugh harder, until I couldn’t barely breathe and there were tears coming out of my eyes.

            “He’s got my arm, he’s got my arm!” I fell suddenly silent, watching Boromir struggle against the two little creatures, grinning. It looked…familiar, to him. A man of his stature, it was a likely thing he had a wife, back home, and children. I wondered if he missed them, if they play-fought like this, or if I was just overthinking it. Merry and Pippin made everyone smile. I didn’t know why, at the time, I seemed so uncharacteristically willing to delude myself to that conclusion.

            “What is that?” said Sam, and it made me turn and notice, the first time, the huge black mass up in the clouded skies.

            “Nothing,” dismissed Gimli, “Just a wisp of cloud.”

            Boromir was rising slowly behind me, the hobbits having finally let him off, breathing heavily from his tussle. “It’s moving fast,” he panted, squinting. “…and against the wind.”

            Another moment, and suddenly Legolas gasped and staggered back, hair bobbing and eyes going wide. “Crebain from Dunland!” said he.

            “ _Shit_!” said I.

            “What do we do?” Pippin fretted, but it was drowned out by Aragorn’s “hide! Take cover!” and Boromir’s “hurry!” I rushed Merry and Pippin under a large scrub, saw all parcels hidden under an outcrop, and looked to see them almost upon us and me sticking out like a sore thumb.

            Something closed around my ankle and pulled me down. A hand clamped over my mouth and I looked furiously to the right to see Boromir, watching nervously above us as the crows swept over the rocks, screeching and cawing, like nails on glass.

            My vision dappled from the shrubby branches. His hand was warm, and rough, firm, and surprisingly gentle at once. I forgot to be afraid.

            Then, they were gone, and slowly we all began to emerge.

            Boromir let me go, and I turned at him, questioningly. He cleared his throat, stood, and helped me up, letting my hand awkwardly go and dusting off his surcoat. “Watch yourself,” he said, after a while. “I won’t do it for you.”

            Gandalf was struggling to his feet just a few feet away, watching the sky with a wary eye. “Spies of Saruman! The passage south is being watched.” He turned to the mountains. “We must take the Pass of Caradhras.”

            I followed his eyes. “Is he trying to kill us all?” I asked, but no one answered.

            Shouldering my pack, I tugged it up and then picked up my scabbard into hand, shrugging my quiver back on and sighing at my sore shoulders. “Béma be good, I’ve got so many knots.”

            “I can work them out later,” Aragorn offered, falling into step beside me, attaching his sword again to his belt. “If you’d like.”

            “That’d be heavenly,” I sighed, rolling my arms. “I’m no use to this company with bad shoulders.” I shook my hair out, muttering, “The Pass of Caradhras? What’s he, mad? Even in the summer it’s an unfavorable road, but in January it’s a shot short of suicide. We can’t just try to walk over it and hope for fair weather.”

            “I’m sure Gandalf has a plan,” Aragorn said, sounding unsure.

            “I’m sure he has a very foolhardy plan,” I said, sounding absolutely sure. “And, I’m somewhat sure that he, in fact, has no plan at all.”

            We walked until cover of night to find a place to rest, and finally we stopped in the shelter of a cluster of trees, back near the woodsier region of Hollin, and I sat with a weary sigh, wiping my brow.

“Would you mind if I put the knots off to tomorrow?” Aragorn said, sounding absolutely wrecked, and suddenly I realized how exhausted I was too, and was very inclined to incline. “We’ll figure out…tomorrow…” a soft snore announced he’d drifted off.

            I yawned hugely, rubbed my eyes and was beginning to doze when I heard a soft howl.

            My ears might have perked. I straightened, squinting, looking to Legolas, who also looked more alert. “You hear…?”

            He nodded, and it came again, louder. Aragorn sat up with a start beside me. “Wolves,” he said, and I stood slowly and walked to the borders of our little camp, scowling and scanning the prairie side to side for signs of the creatures who’d taught me the ways of the wild.

            Another howl. “They’re coming this way,” I murmured, to Gandalf behind me. “Stoke up the fire. Make it bigger.” I turned to the others. “Draw swords, make ready! Circle the fire, keep it to your back!” another howl sounded, loud and menacing and close, and a huge black creature bounded over the slope and leapt at me.

            I ripped my sword free and broke its lunge on the blade, rolling with the impact and yanking it free. “Don’t let them be taller than you!” wolves poured over the ridge and raced for us one by one, met by our steel and our arrow shafts.

            They came at us in scores, and it had to have been the biggest damn pack of wolves I’d ever _seen,_ biting and snarling like a hive mind, lashing out for us almost as one.

Over and over I glimpsed a huge grey beast, swarming and biting for us before pulling back and rumbling to the others from the flank. _The alpha._ The wolves kept coming, and coming, and we were tiring.

            I threw everything aside and leaped.

            The pack leader and I went rolling. The wolves stepped back in a sudden hush at this challenger to their alpha, watched us in silence. I heard the others shouting and moving to come and help me, but I barked “ _get back_!” and turned to my fight at hand. The alpha snapped at my arm and missed, and I yanked a dagger out of my boot and buried it between his ribs. The pack leader yelped and rolled onto his back, writhing in unaccustomed pain, and I pinned him to the ground, closed my hands around its throat and _squeezed_.

            The wolf thrashed. Then he gurgled, then he lapsed into silence. Twitch, twitch, twitch…slack. Gone.

            I let him go and stood up slowly, quaking. The body slumped over to the ground, tongue lolling thickly. I muttered my disgust and turned to the others, watching me in reverence, waiting orders from their new alpha.

            “Go!’ I shouted, “Go, go, leave!” they turned their tails and trotted away, already snapping at one another, fighting for a chance at leader.

            “They won’t be coming back,” I said, turning back to the others, and they sank wearily to the ground, sighing and murmuring their relief.

            “There’s one more,” Legolas spoke. I turned back.

            One, indeed, remained. A silver, no bigger than a pup. He watched me with big amber eyes, and cocked his head, rolling over onto his back as I approached.

            “What do we do with it?” Pippin asked, quiet.

            “Kill it,” Gimli muttered. “Wargs are foul creatures, no good. The less of them there are in the world, the better.”

            I took a few steps toward the little thing- not truly so little, but little enough to me- and watched it lower its snout respectfully to the ground.

            “It’s a baby,” I said, shaking my head. “It hasn’t learned to hate us yet, that’s clear.” I sat down by the pup and stroked his silky ears, before rubbing his fuzzy underbelly and allowing a smile when his foot started to kick.

            “Do we set it loose, then?” asked Aragorn, and I looked to see his frown. “Let it live and then learn?”

            “No,” I said, going to scoop the creature up, holding it in my arms. He was soft and puppy-fuzzy all over, and he licked my cheek and tucked his little snout under my chin. “This one is mine.”

            I took the little ghost to my bedroll and lay down, let the wolf find a place nearby my head to curl. He had found his alpha, and perhaps he was a smarter one than all the rest, to recognize a strength all wolves could bow to.

            I was absolutely exhausted, so I stroked over the little ghost’s back, before shutting my eyes and falling helplessly into a near-dreamless sleep.

            When I opened my eyes and found the ceiling over my head I recognized it right away, so I wasn’t surprised when I felt his lips pressing warmly over the curve of his shoulder, beard rasping against my skin.

            “You’re back,” I said softly, and his hand slid over mine. _I wouldn’t leave you,_ the gesture said. One of the curtains shielding the balcony from view was drawn across the doorway, leaving a pale shaft of moonlight to pierce the dark near where our legs were tangled beneath the covers.

            I watched the blankets as he continued to press his lips against my back, fighting with myself. I burned to ask him his identity, but doing so before had yielded no results, and eventually I decided to let nature run its course and just let it happen, like Arwen had suggested. I squeezed the hand in mine, and tilted my head for the shadow to suck on the skin in the crook between my neck and shoulder, closed my eyes and sighed. The shadow shifted his grip on me and turned me onto my back, ducking his head to capture a nipple in his mouth. I rested my hand on the back of his head and twisted my fingers loosely into his hair.

            He shifted again, and kissed my ribs, then my stomach, then my hip, and the inside of my thigh. I needed little encouragement to part my legs for him, and I was quickly awarded with a wet, warm kiss to my sex and a finger poking at my entrance, rubbing slowly, teasing. I gasped as he slid inside, the act somehow more erotic than shoving his cock up in there had ever been. My breath hitched as I inhaled and turned into soft wanton moans on the way out. My dreams had always been gratifying, but this one felt more real than any of the others had. My eyelids cracked slowly, watched as he pleasured me, his hair turned to silver in the moonlight-

            Wait, his hair? I had never been able to see it like I did now, strands of it slipping through my fingers, shifting on his head, locks of it brushing my thighs. I gasped wordlessly and he lifted his head and I saw his face and that sight near stopped my heart as something catapulted me back into the waking world, just as the dawn was breaking.


	19. XVII: A Fine Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We walked along, trailing after the others, watching them. For a while it was almost like we were alone again, together and on the road like our ranger days. Somehow, I had a feeling that those days were over.
> 
> “I don’t like this way,” I confessed, to break the silence. I knew that Aragorn was listening, even if he didn’t look at me. “Mithrandir is boarsighted, and you know how much of an ass he is when he’s boarsighted.”
> 
> “Some of us are going to die,” he said- lightly, as if we were walking to a Sunday brunch.

**XVII: A Fine Mess**

_January 16_

            I laid there on the ground through the last desperate grip of the night, watched as the morning warrior came to drive back the dark again, stared at the sky until everyone else began to stir and go about their daily tasks.

            I rose slowly, cursing my wobbly knees. Aragorn noticed right away that something was off, and he laid his hand on my shoulder. “ _Osellë?_ Is anything wrong?”

            “Nothing,” I blurted, jerking away from his well-meaning hand. Every inch of my skin was twitchy, oversensitive. I rubbed the side of my neck, stuffy, claustrophobic.

            “Are you sure?” he persisted. “You look flushed. Are you feverish? Should I-”

            “ _No_!” I squeaked, shying from the hand he had been moving to press to my forehead. “Sorry, I…I just need…water. I’m going to the river. I’ll be back.” Ignoring his look of bewildered confusion, I turned around and made a mad dash for the brook just beyond the campsite. The babbling of the water was a soothing rhythm to my frayed nerves, and I sighed as I knelt on the banks and splashed some of the cold clear water onto my face, cupping my hands and rubbing it over my neck, too. Ghost crouched by my side to lap from the stream, amber eyes closing in contentment.

            There was a rustling in the trees behind me and I gasped, looking up and reaching for my dagger, prepared to make quick work of the boar or the wildcat coming for me.

            It was no wild animal that came for me, though, it was worse. It was Boromir. Ghost lifted his head to peer nonchalantly at the newcomer, and then returned to the stream.

            _Curse my timing._ I turned back to the water, blushing a fierce shade of red. What was I supposed to say? The images from last night’s vivid dream came back to me, turning me even redder. I could only hope that he just went about his business and left me be…

            “This is the coldest it’s been yet,” he remarked as he knelt and began filling a canteen with the fresh mountain water. I squeezed my eyes shut, cursing internally, pleading myself to speak without saying something embarrassing. “Uhm…yes, cold. It’s, uh…well…you know, magic of the elves and…uhm. We left Rivendell and all, so…uh…yeah. Cold.”

            He peered sideways at me, quirking an eyebrow, but mercifully he did not question my less-than-eloquent answer, pulling the canteen from the water and corking it. In the haze of unwelcome memories, I hadn’t even realized he was engaging in civil conversation. “I had heard the name ‘Wolf-tamer’ before, but I hadn’t known that you could truly tame the wolves.” He looked somewhat nervously at Ghost, and asked me, “Will he chew my hand off if I try to touch him?”

            “N-not if I’m here,” I choked out, turning to the water but peering sideways as he patted the wolf on the head, stroking his fingers through the thick pale fur. They were long and calloused and very clever as they jumped from spot to spot until they dexterously found their mark. Ghost rolled and showed his belly, and he grinned and rubbed over the soft grey fur there. His hands were quite large, I realized. Scarred a bit at the knuckles. I turned away suddenly, blinking out a rapid code and shaking my head. _Béma, Gléoláf, why the sudden fixation with the hands of His High and Mighty Stewardness?_ Wearily, I sighed, blocked out more images from the dream and looked back to the water.

            “I can’t deny he’s a powerful creature,” Boromir said, a note of admiration showing in his tone. Then, he looked up at me. “Did you sleep all right last night?”

            I felt like a caged rabbit. “I…was…my sleep was a little…disturbed.”

            He peered at me, and for a single horrifying moment I thought, _he knows,_ but then he stood and began to head back for camp. “You’d kicked off your cloak. I noticed on my watch, I put it back. I hope you don’t mind…”

            Wordlessly I shook my head, and he turned and disappeared through the trees. I blew a soft sigh, and looked to Ghost, who sat watching me silently. “Well, Ghost,” I said, tucking my knees up to my chest and reaching over to scratch him behind the ears. “This is a fine mess.”

            When I returned to camp, Aragorn gave me a concerned once-over, but I batted him irritably off and went to gather my possessions. As I was shouldering my pack I looked about for Ghost and realized he had disappeared. “Ghost? Ghost, to me!” the wolf had well and truly vanished without a trace, and I sighed irritably. “Hell, where has that furry freeloader gotten off to now?”

            I found him nosing at a nervous-looking Sam. “Ghost! Get off, stupid.” I pushed him away with both hands and looked down to the hobbit, concerned. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

            “No, Miss Gléoláf,” Sam stuttered, the whites of his eyes flashing like a cornered horse. He moved to the side but I cut him off with a quick step. “I hope he wasn’t a nuisance.”

            “Not at all,” the hobbit said quickly, darting to my left and dashing off like a rabbit on the hunt. I stared after him, confused until I remembered the wargs, my vicious fight with the alpha, my hands squeezing the life from him for daring to bring his pack to threaten mine. I lifted my palms and stared, at all of the callouses and the rough skin, hardened over like leather. I squeezed them shut, flexed my fingers. _I killed a warg with my bare hands._ Would Arwen’s soft milky palms do that? I doubted it. I dropped my hands, looking over my shoulder at Sam. I had protected him, why was he so afraid…?

            Ghost nosed into my hand, and I scratched his ears, sighing. The wolves had it easy; bowing only to strength, following the one who could bite the hardest, claw the deepest. To be that one in a pack so complex as mine was to walk alone.

            Well, maybe not alone. I had Ghost, didn’t I?

            When we set out that morning, I walked up at the front with the wolf, scouting ahead and doubling back to report our surroundings to Gandalf. We pressed east to the pass, and as we drew on the next phase of our journey I only grew more uneasy.

            “The snows are on Caradhras,” I said to Gandalf, as we stopped for the midday meal. “It’ll be a dangerous thing to cross.”

            The wizard’s bushy eyebrows quivered like they did when he was brooding. “It is the only way to go, now that the Gap has closed to us.”

            “You’re a frank wizard, Mithrandir, so I’ll speak it frankly. If we cross Caradhras- that _is_ an if, not a when- we will almost certainly lose a few good men.”

            Despite my concerns, we continued to the slopes and began to ascend the mountainside in an oddly-regimented fashion. We donned our cloaks, capes, and hoods, and took to a single-file line, me near the middle with Ghost. At first he romped in the snow, curious at the new stuff he had never seen before, but when he found it was cold he stayed close to me, avoiding the drifts and sniffing at every other boulder, marking a few and leaving others.

            We cleared the tree line sometime in the late afternoon. When we emerged the sun was blinding as it reflected off of the pale snow, untouched this high. It was almost beautiful, in a frightening powerful way, but it reminded me of Forochel, and so I kept my eyes ahead and kept moving on. The sun was bright in our eyes and we squinted as we adjusted to the glare, but it offered no warmth to us. We moved determinedly up the steep, slippery slopes, none of us willing to stop and let the chill creep into our bones.

            I heard a startled cry and a shuffle behind me, and turned rapidly to see what was going on, alarmed. Frodo was tumbling down through the snow, head over feet, scrabbling for a handhold.

            Aragorn, at the rear of the line, caught him and pulled him slowly to his feet, dusting the snow from his coat and asking him softly if he was all right. Frodo dug into the neck of his shirt and withdrew his hand, looking up to my brother like a frightened child.

            _It’s gone,_ I realized, with an icy feeling. It was fear like I had not felt in a long while, long enough that I would have to think hard to remember the last time. Ghost laid his ears back suddenly.

            Boromir, just behind me in the line, stepped carefully down the slope, boots crunching in the snow. He stooped and groped at the ground, and I heard the _chink_ of metal clicking together. I tried to look away but the little golden band held me in a fascination as it came into my view. _This war may be over soon. You would never have to pick up sword again. Your hands could grow soft as your cousin’s. All you must do…_

I shook my head rapidly, squeezing my eyes shut until the whispering voice faded away, the faint pulse in my palm falling to a little whisper. It was tempting. Too tempting.

            “It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much over so small a thing,” Boromir spoke softly, in that same voice I had heard at the Council. _In a dream, I saw the eastern sky grow dark…but in the west a pale light lingered._ The fingers of his left hand came up, floating under the little golden loop, quivering under his gloves in a way that had nothing to do with cold. “Such a little thing.”

            “Boromir,” Aragorn said sharply, his left hand on Frodo’s shoulder. The other was moving slowly to his sword, gripping until the knuckles were white. At his words the man of Gondor gave a sudden start, as if something had just woken him from a deep sleep.

            “Give the Ring to Frodo,” Aragorn said sternly, hand clenching on the sword hilt. Ghost rumbled, and I rested my hand on his neck, waiting.

            Boromir moved slowly down to where they stood together, hand closed about the chain that the Ring hung on. Slowly, he held it out, the trinket catching the light and reflecting the sunshine in a way that made it seem so much more golden. “As you wish,” he said softly, holding it out, as Frodo reached up and snapped the Ring away, eyebrows fretfully knitted together. Boromir stayed there a moment, before lowering the hand and ruffling the hobbit’s snowy curls. “I care not,” he said, forcing a laugh, and turning to continue up the slopes.

            I stayed in place, watched him come up. He gave me a poisonous look as he passed by where I stood. “What are you staring at, wolf bitch?”

            I let him go, and let my hand move slowly from Ghost’s neck, briefly rubbing his ear. I waited there until Aragorn had caught up to me. I let Ghost trot off beside Frodo, watched as the hobbit petted the wolf’s back.

            “I worry about him,” Aragorn told me, as we went up together, strides matching like they always did.

            “You worry about everyone, _Otoro.”_

“I worry especially about him.”

            I sighed softly. “I think we all do. Of all those who volunteered themselves over to this mission, his motives are the most…questionable.”

            Aragorn looked to me. “Questionable in a ‘where’s-the-body-hidden’ sense?”

            “Questionable in an ‘I’d-like-to-let-the-wolf-loose-and-see-what-he-admits-to-make-me-call-him-off’ sense,” I replied, adjusting my hood and blowing a quick breath into my hands, watching warily out at the gathering clouds.

            We walked along, trailing after the others, watching them. For a while it was almost like we were alone again, together and on the road like our ranger days. Somehow, I had a feeling that those days were over.

            “I don’t like this way,” I confessed, to break the silence. I knew that Aragorn was listening, even if he didn’t look at me. “Mithrandir is boarsighted, and you know how much of an ass he is when he’s boarsighted.”

            “Some of us are going to die,” he said- lightly, as if we were walking to a Sunday brunch.


	20. XVIII: Far and Away; the Worst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was silent in thinking, before I realized my elbow was still on his hand, and I squeezed briefly before pulling it back. He caught the hand as it retreated, pulled it to his lips and pressed a kiss on the back of the palm. His growing travel beard was still somewhat prickly.
> 
> He let me go, and cleared his throat at my staring. “Pardons,” he told me, quiet. “You’re the first to sit and…listen to my woes.”
> 
> I couldn’t help a soft chuckle, and he smiled softly at me. It was odd, what I felt then, the tight ache in the middle of my chest, slight yawn in my throat. It was a feeling I’d long since banished to a shadowed corner of me, shoved it into the dark, associated it with betrayal and hurt and lies. And damn him, it was all unraveling now, and all I had was hope.

**XVIII: Far and Away; the Worst**

_January 17_

            The snows and the winds whipped at us together like some unholy alliance to simply freeze us in place, and so far they were succeeding. Ghost padded above the drifts with Legolas while the rest of us fought our way through the snow, chest-high, buried deep.

            The day had only gotten worse, what with the cold seeping into our bones, filling in cracks like trickling water and freezing to push the pieces apart, break us now and forever. I clenched my jaw, bowed my head to the snow and pushed on.

            The hobbits had long ago given up trying and had accepted the help offered to them by their taller companions- Aragorn had Sam and Frodo up braced to his shoulders, one in each arm, and Boromir had a hand on the backs of Merry and Pippin, helping them along best he could, forcing drifts out of the way with his massive bulk. Gimli forged valiantly forward still, and Gandalf fought in the forefront, shoving the chest-high snow from our path. I raised an arm over my eyes, wincing, struggling along at the rear.

            “This is fucking insane!” I screamed, unsure of who could hear, not caring if anyone did, but Legolas turned and gave me a sympathetic look from above. “This is madness; we won’t make it like this!”

            The elf turned suddenly to the distance, and over the howl of the wind I heard it too- an echoing, pulsing chant in a very old tongue, one that sounded vaguely like the incantation that had once brought the library down on the one I called master. The snow seemed to intensify, whip more fiercely, sting deeper, icy-hot where it scraped and burned across my cheeks.

            “There is a fell voice on the air!” called Legolas. Gandalf, without having even to stop and listen, for the words were growing louder, bellowed down the line, “ _It’s Saruman_!”

            To accentuate his words there came a threatening grumble, and we all looked over our heads, cried in fear and pressed close to the mountainside. Boulders crashed and rolled over the ridge, into the infinite air below. “He’s trying to bring down the mountain!” I recognized my brother’s voice, sounding like it had come from miles away. “Gandalf! We must turn back!”

            “ _No_!” barked the wizard, and I saw him clamber out, up atop the drifts, spread his hands and counterchant the bellow carried on the ferocious howl of the blizzard, turning the will of the snows and the rock against us. “ _Losto Caradhras, sedho, hodo! Nuitho i ‘ruith!”_

            A bolt of lightning ripped across the clouds. White-hot, jagged, flashing bright as day for a split second and striking the slopes above with the almighty crack of heat colliding, tearing, breaking.

            A whimper from someone, I couldn’t tell who.

            With a sudden chorus of yells, we shoved up against the rock, Ghost scuffling beside the slope with me, the prince seizing Gandalf’s robe and bearing him to the mountainside before the snow cascaded over us in a heavy, cold downpour, silent and deadly. For a terrifying moment the breath was driven for me, and furiously I kicked for the surface, wriggling and digging above me until my lungs were about to burst, and my chest burned as I finally struck air, fought to the top and sucked in a huge breath. Moments later Ghost emerged, snuffling wildly, blinking huge amber eyes with pupils fearfully dilated.

            The incantation had ceased, so I knew it was Boromir who next spoke. “We must get off the mountain! Make for the Gap of Rohan, and take the west road to my city!”

            “The Gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard!” shouted Aragorn.

            “If we cannot pass over the mountain, let us go under it!” objected Gimli, snow crusted over his grizzled red beard, in a way that would have been comical had we not all been slowly freezing to death. “Let us go through the Mines of Moria.”

            “Everyone shut the fuck up!” I barked, and everyone turned to back to look at me suddenly, as if they’d only just remembered I was there. A brief silence followed, before Gandalf turned to Frodo, still buried to his waist in Aragorn’s arm. “Let the Ringbearer decide.”

            Frodo looked around at us all, eyes fearfully wide, blinking once, twice, perhaps a total of three times.

“We cannot stay here!” Boromir put in, and when he nodded jerkily down I looked, saw Merry and Pippin huddling, trembling, near as pale as the drifts around them. “This will be the death of the hobbits!”

That if anything made up Frodo’s mind. “We will go through the Mines.”

            Gandalf seemed to sigh, before he affirmed the course of action, let us know we were all turning around. “So be it.”

            It was hours before we were down again, and as soon as we were beneath the tree line again we all collapsed, and slept hours.

            Nothing like drudgery and defeat to get a good night’s sleep.

_January 18_

            I find it fucking hilarious that I’d nearly frozen to death on a mountain just the day before, and yet this following one turned out to be, far and away, The Worst.

            “What kind of shit decision is this?” I muttered, rolling grudgingly along beside Legolas, the dark blanketing us like a cloak. “Mines of Moria. Humph. Sure, let’s take the nice underground path of dank dwarvishness, it’ll be fun!” I huffed, adjusted my pack on my shoulder, muttering discontentedly.

“Dwarf doors are invisible when closed,” spoke Gimli, from up ahead. I huffed another sigh, scanned the walls beside me, saw no doors, and shrugged. The elf chuckled beside me, and I nudged him with my toe, biting back my own snicker.

“Yes, Gimli,” said Gandalf, tapping on the stone with his staff. “Their own masters cannot find them, if their secrets are forgotten.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” spoke Legolas, and I sniggered through Gimli’s dirty look shot our way, turning it quickly into a cough. Instead I eyed the pond beside us, searching the murky depths with distrust heavy on me. I knew for certain I didn’t like this place, not at all.

“Well, let’s see,” said the wizard, halting, and brushing a part of the wall. Dirt crumbled and scattered to the ground. “Ithildin. It mirrors only starlight and moonlight.”

“Moon-runes,” I murmured, enchanted, as spidery lines of glowing white began to spiral up, showing themselves in the stone, illuminating our faces and throwing them into sharp shadows. Ghost cocked his head and watched curiously, sitting on his haunches. I heard Boromir stepping forward before he spoke to me (yes, I’d learned to identify the company by gait), saw his hand on Ghost’s head, rubbing an ear, before I heard his voice. “You say moon-runes?”

“I saw them once before on a map,” I replied. “Long time ago. This is much more impressive, I assure you.”

“It reads,” said Gandalf, tapping the words in time with his staff, “‘The doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter.’”

“What do you suppose that means?” questioned Merry.

“Oh, it’s quite simple,” Gandalf assured us, “If you are a friend, you speak the password, and the doors will open.” He turned, cleared his throat, and pressed his staff to the seam in the stone. “ _Annon Edhellen edro hi ammen!_ ”

For a moment I thought, perhaps it’s just a lag, or a delay, but nothing happened.

“I don’t think it was the right one,” the Steward-prince offered in a low voice, and I snickered, reaching up to pet Ghost’s ears, giving a sudden start when our hands met. I looked at him, questioning, but he only smiled oddly and looped his fingers about mine, squeezing lightly before letting them go. “ _Fennas Nogothrim lasto beth lammen!_ ”

Again, silence. Gandalf stepped back, looked the doors over as a problem, now, and then stepped forward again, heaving against the stone, shoving at the doors. The rock did not budge.

“Nothing’s happening,” observed Pip.

Gandalf pushed, shoved, and sighed, muttered, “I once knew every spell in all the tongues of the elves, men…and orcs.”

“What are you going to do, then?” Pippin inquired.

“Knock your head against these doors, Peregrin Took!” the wizard snapped, turning around and tearing into the ever-inquisitive hobbit. “And if that does not shatter them and I am allowed a little peace from foolish questions, I will try to find the opening words.”

Pippin bowed his head. When I passed him to find a seat, I patted his shoulder reassuringly, choosing a boulder and letting Ghost rest his head in my lap, the chorus of Gandalf’s passwords providing a nice selection of chamber music for the occasion. “ _Ando Eldarinwa a lasta quettanya, Fenda Casarinwa!_ ”

I watched Aragorn help Sam to turn Bill loose. The mines were no place for a pony, even one as brave. Still, it was a little sad to see the little fellow go, though I knew he’d find the way back just fine.

“How have you been?” I heard the soft question beside me, looked to Boromir.

“How’ve I…been?”

He shrugged, turning aside, scratching at an itch on the back of his neck. Shrugged.

“I’m…fine. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

A soft splash. Aragorn was walking back, and he seized Pippin’s arm before he could hurl a rock into the murky depths of the pond. “Do not disturb the water.”

“Oh, it’s useless!” a short ways away, Gandalf tossed his staff down and took a seat with a huff.

Boromir sighed softly, fiddled with the fabric of his trousers, picking at a loose thread and eyeballing my brother up by the water.

“He doesn’t like me.” I turned to him again. “Your brother.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Well, you haven’t exactly been the most approachable fellow, sir.”

He sighed, frowned at the ground. “I…you’re right. I’m…making excuses, that’s what I’m doing. I miss home, miss my city, miss my brother.”

“Your brother?” I remarked, soft. He raised his head, nodded at me. “I never knew you had a brother.”

His mouth ticked up at the corner. “You never asked.”

It took me a moment, but then I chuckled at him, shrugging, nodding. “Is he older or is he younger?”

“Younger,” said Boromir, and I could see him brightening already. “Younger by five years. Valar, you’d love him; he’s sharp as you are, got a wit like a knife. Just…a joy. He’s been my best friend for as long as I remember.”

I smiled at him, something tightening in me at the look of wistful happiness he wore as he thought of home.

“I’m sure he’s taking care of things well as he can in your stead,” I said.

“Likely better,” he replied, smiling, but the look faded in an instant, replaced with a deep heavy sorrow and a weighty sigh.

“What?” I queried, softly, thinking and hesitating before reaching tentatively and putting a hand on his elbow. “What’s wrong?”

“My…my father has never seen us in the same light,” he said, wringing his hands slowly. “He…he’s never been fond of him, I…I never knew why. Could never figure out, for the life of me why…Faramir is…sharp, and intuitive, and insightful, and sensitive and…a lot of things I’m not.” He shook his head. “He was never much of a warrior, never a soldier…not proud, not content to follow his orders, preferred to make sense of things himself. For that, I think, Father…prefers me. I was always more inclined to do what he said. Without asking why.”

I was silent in thinking, before I realized my elbow was still on his hand, and I squeezed briefly before pulling it back. He caught the hand as it retreated, pulled it to his lips and pressed a kiss on the back of the palm. His growing travel beard was still somewhat prickly.

He let me go, and cleared his throat at my staring. “Pardons,” he told me, quiet. “You’re the first to sit and…listen to my woes.”

I couldn’t help a soft chuckle, and he smiled softly at me. It was odd, what I felt then, the tight ache in the middle of my chest, slight yawn in my throat. It was a feeling I’d long since banished to a shadowed corner of me, shoved it into the dark, associated it with betrayal and hurt and lies. And damn him, it was all unraveling now, and all I had was hope.

Frodo was saying something off towards the doors, and then came Gandalf’s voice with the elvish dictation, “ _Mellon_.”

There was a sudden crack, and a rumbling. I turned, and watched as the doors began to pull open, the passcode having at last been found.

I laughed, rose and shouldered my pack and patted Ghost on the head, moving towards the dark of the mines that had opened to us. We all filed inside slowly, Gimli chattering to Legolas all the while. “Soon, Master Elf, you will enjoy the fabled hospitality of the dwarves. Roaring fires, malt beer, ripe meat off the bone!” My mouth ticked up at a corner, and I shook my head a little at Aragorn. “This, my friend, is the home of my cousin Balin. And they call it a mine. A mine!”

I was about to remark; ask how old Balin was doing since last I’d seen him seventy-seven years back in Dale, but my foot crunched through something and I looked down, released a choked gasp, the item underfoot visible by the newly-lit crystal atop Gandalf’s staff.

“This is no mine,” Boromir said suddenly, voice welling with contempt. “It’s a tomb!”

Skeletons lay everywhere, covered in cobwebs and dust, discarded weapons and arrows lying scattered across the floors.

“No,” said Gimli, horrified, “No!” he rushed to the nearest body, held it and howled in his pain, and I stepped back, ripping my sword from its sheath.

Legolas plucked an arrow from a corpse, examined the make, threw it to the floor with a clatter. “Goblins!”

“We make for the Gap of Rohan,” Boromir rumbled, backing up to the door, sword coming out to mirror Aragorn’s just a few feet away. “We should never have come here.”

Slowly, panic rising, we backed away, unwilling to face the darkness- little did we know that the real fear was behind us.

“Now get out of here! _Get out_!”

“ _Frodo_!” panicky cries sounded from the doorway, and we whipped around, saw the Ringbearer on the ground, being dragged to the water.

“Strider!” Sam cried for help, as Frodo wailed in distress. “ _Get off him_!” the hobbit brought his barrow-sword down and cut off the thing that was holding his friend down; and for a moment there was silence.

Then what seemed like hundreds of tentacles burst from the murky depths, swatting the hobbits aside, seizing Frodo and hauling him up into the air.

Frodo screamed, and Merry cried again for Aragorn. Legolas whipped out his bow and put an arrow in the slimy arm holding onto the hobbit. Gritting my teeth, I swung my sword into the ready, hefted it high and rushed out ready to raise hell. My brother and the steward-prince followed, and we splashed into the shallows and sliced at the appendages, lashing at us like whips, enough weight behind the strokes to crack ribs, jar organs and send us flying into solid rock.

Aragorn found the tentacle that held onto Frodo, slashed, and the hobbit whizzed through the air, into Boromir’s arms, and Gandalf cried from the entrance, “ _Into the Mines_!”

“ _Legolas_!” Boromir screamed, voice strained in a fear I didn’t know he could feel, and I didn’t understand why he was calling for the elf.

“Into the cave! Run!” barked Aragorn.

Legolas must have translated Boromir’s panic-talk into a legible strategy, because he stood at the entrance, nocked an arrow, and fired. The arrow shaft stuck into the beast’s eye, and it roared behind us, retreating into the water, giving us the last second we needed to rush into the doors, into the dark. Ghost was barking, and there was a sudden rumbling behind us. Once a safe distance away I turned, wheezing, to watch the entrance collapse behind us. We were plunged into the inky black of the caverns, and the only sound was the startled gasp of our breath and the faint _drip-drip_ of water from sodden garments.

Then, a faint beam of light glimmered. I turned around me, took a count. The hobbits, four in a cluster, next to Gimli. Ghost, and Legolas just beyond him. Gandalf, his staff, illuminating us all in a faint, ghostly glow. Aragorn, Boromir, sodden as myself. I squeezed the hilt of my sword, turned to my belt to resheathe it. Aragorn was by my side in a moment. “You’re all right?”

“I’m fine,” I said softly, “I’m fine.” Boromir raised his eyes and I caught them for the briefest moment. Something passed between us, but a second later he’d looked to Gandalf and it was gone.

“We now have but one choice,” quoth the wizard, turning to the halls before us, words met with a stunned sort of shocked silence. Slowly, we all followed in his wake. “We must face the long dark of Moria. Be on your guard. There are older and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the world.”

Ghost pattered ahead, walking among the hobbits, and at first they shied, but then they relaxed, gradually, even stole a few glances back at me. Wondering, perhaps, if ferocity and tenderness could live inside the same individual.

As if he’d read my mind, Boromir spoke softly from beside me, “They won’t fear you forever. Before they thought you a woman, and now the very fiercest of warriors. They’re learning that the two coexist.”

“Coexist?” I snorted, “Where? What does that make me, a woman and a warrior? That breed was dying out from the start.”

“That breed prospers today,” he told me, with that odd buoyant half-smile again, “And has for as long as the earth has turned.”

“Enough with your riddles, Gondorim, who are these creatures you speak of?”

“Mothers,” he said, softly, and as if it solved everything he pulled ahead, walked beside Merry and Pip, reached down and ruffled one of their heads.

“Quietly now,” Gandalf whispered, as we passed the entering hall and came into a wide, dank cavern, the first of a quite repetitive scenery. “It’s a four-day journey to the other side. Let us hope that our presence may go unnoticed.”


	21. XIX: Fever and Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wizard blew dust from the cover of the large book and opened the ancient volume, reading over the words in a low, grave voice. “They have taken the bridge, and the second hall. We have barred the gates, but cannot hold them for long. The ground shakes. Drums, drums in the deep.” He turned a page with care. My heart ricocheted in my chest. “We cannot get out. A Shadow moves in the dark. We cannot get out. They are coming.”
> 
> “Gandalf, that’s enough-” I started to hiss, but a sudden crash brought us all to a grinding halt.
> 
> Pippin turned suddenly to us all, away from the well, had the grace at least to flinch as the corpse tumbled down into the abyss, clattering and clunking, dragging a bucket and chain with it. The noise reverberated all over the mines, and we stood stock still, not even moving an eyeball as if that would somehow make us untraceable.

**XIX: Fever and Fire**

_January 24_

            Moria, like a great many other things, made me cross. The first day was dark. The second, dark. Third, dark, and now this fourth one was dark, for a change of scenery. The journey had been filled with collisions, slips, brushes with death and a good deal of stepping on toes. The good news was, if Gandalf was to be believed, we’d find the way out sometime today.

            Of course, this was coming from the Maia that had taken us into the Redhorn Pass in the dead of winter.

            Patience, Gléoláf. Deep breaths and patience. Imagine shady groves and sunlit glens. And tea. Anywhere but the dark. The light had really screwed my sleep schedule, and I tossed and turned for hours before I could even hope to doze. I was tired. And by consequence, it made me cross.

            Moria and insomnia together then, by principle of addition, made me _quite_ cross.

            So maybe I snapped a bit too sharply when I tripped over Pippin (for the eighth time, felt like it at least) and grudged for far too long, grumbling and sniping and being a general ass until I suddenly slipped around midday and panicked when my arms struck empty air trying to catch my fall.

            It was broken suddenly by a sharp tug at my neck, and I realized someone had my collar. I swallowed hard at my close call, almost trembling at the chasm suddenly lit by Gandalf’s staff.

            “The wealth of Moria was not in gold,” said the wizard, from ahead, “Or jewels…but mithril.”

            Some vein lit up with the dim light and suddenly I was blinded. It was bright, bright as day, and I squeezed my eyes shut, stepping back and bumping into Boromir. Slowly, he released my collar, looked angry at first glance, but the more I observed the more the man looked to be…burying something.

            Gandalf was talking up ahead again. We were moving on. He gestured for me to go on ahead, and I swallowed hard, mouth moving before I said, hoarse, “Thank you.”

            “There’s no need to thank me,” he said, stiffly. “I would have done the same for any of the others, as would you. Let’s move along, I don’t want to get too far behind.”

            I took a few steps, halted, asked, “What’s bothering you?”

            “This dark,” he said, nudging me in the back, not ungently. “Come on, move along.”

            “Something’s bothering you,” I pushed on, walking, turning to narrow my eyes at him, and he looked even grumpier than before. “And I mean-” I tripped, not looking where I was going, and he caught me long before I hit the ground, a hand warm and steady on my arm.

            He pulled me up, sighed, almost with relief.

            “Boromir,” I said. He gave a start, realizing it was maybe the first time I’d used his name. Familiarly. Without titles. Who the hell knew? I sure as shit didn’t remember. “I’m all right.”

            He opened his mouth. Spoke, suddenly. “Just…” he trailed off.

“Just _what?_ ” I demanded, crossing my arms and scowling up at him from where I stood.

“Watch yourself,” he spat, spinning crossly on his heel and slinging his shield up onto one broad shoulder. “I can’t save you every time, you know.” He stormed off before I could even think to formulate a reply, but for once I was glad, because if he’d stayed he would have seen me, standing there with my mouth hanging open like a fish.

_I think I love him._

            In hindsight it seems quite dramatic, and for once I’ll say it was. It was effective as a punch to the gut, one that sends you sprawling and gasping for air. I nearly swayed on my feet, felt a little dizzy and put a hand to the stone beside me, bracing myself, silently. I looked up and spotted Boromir up ahead, watching me, still stoic, with only the barest touch of concern. “You coming?”

            I nodded, wordlessly. “Yes, yes.”

            “You’re all right?”

            “Of course.”

            He offered his hand to help me over a small pile of boulders, and I took it and stepped over, feeling like smacking myself around and going _idiot_ for the undeniable electricity I felt then. How’d it taken me so damn long to recognize what all of his looks and soft words and secret smiles meant?

            “Thank you,” I said, earnestly, after I’d gotten down safely on the other side, and we shuffled slowly after the faint light up ahead, “For…everything.”

            He shrugged, eyes going suddenly to the floor, and in that moment I despised the dark even more to miss the flush that might’ve been staining his cheeks then. His ears had been red before when we’d spoken, had I really written that off to sunburn…?

            Béma, I was a blustering fool.

            “No, honestly-” I started.

            “It’s fine,” he said in a rush, looking up at me again, realizing he still had my hand, smiling nervously and dropping it. “I…would’ve d-done the same, for…for any-”

            I stood on toe, placed a hand on his shoulder and hid a soft kiss behind his ear. I held it a few moments, didn’t need a light to know he was blushing when I drew back; I could feel the heat radiating from his cheeks.

            “Still,” I murmured, squeezing one wide shoulder, feeling cloth and leather give to hardened muscle, and offered a brief half-smile. “We take what comfort we can get these days in the kindness of others.”

            Suddenly he was leaning closer, closer until our noses were almost touching, murmured in a husky, low voice that made my insides shiver: “It’s quite selfish, actually, the kindness I’ve showed you…”

            There was a scuffle of boots on the rock and he jerked back suddenly. Aragorn eyed us both, confused. “Gléoláf…?”

            “Coming,” I murmured, slipping away, hurrying off in front of him, stunned at what had just (almost) happened, so fast…

            “What was that?” Aragorn hissed, and I sped up, walking away quicker, couldn’t he see I needed to be alone with my thoughts? “Gléoláf.” He reached out, caught my arm, and I jerked him off. “Leave me alone, Aragorn. Just let me go.”

            “I want to help you.” His voice was soft, his countenance wounded, but the exposed part of me was still writhing, writhing in the blinding light though it was pitch black dark.

            _You want to coddle me._ I pulled my hand away, cradled it close like it was cut to the quick, the bone, bleeding, burned. “Leave me be,” I whispered, and I shuffled away.

            Just up ahead, Gandalf was stopped. He looked about, around. He blinked.

            “I have no memory of this place.”

            I sat alone; counted myself among the blessed that none appeared to engage me. “Selfish, the kindness I showed you.” I muttered, curling into myself, pensive and protracted. “Can’t save you every time.”

            Ghost plopped down by my feet, and a few moments’ shuffling gave me fair warning to Boromir’s approach. My fingers picked at the knees to my trousers. This time I could face him. This time I was ready.

            “I’m sorry,” he murmured, when he sat down across from me, turning his back on the others, truly apologetic. “I know better than anyone to give an introvert their space…” he trailed off.

            I uncurled, turned and looked at him. “But what? I heard a but in there.”

            He looked at me a moment, before snorting softly, cracking a slight smile that had me warm all over. He didn’t smile near enough, I thought. He should do it more often. It was a good look on him, made him look less old, less worn with cares not his own.

            “But I…” he trailed off then, the smile failing suddenly. I leaned in a little closer, strayed a hand to his arm. He twitched faintly under my fingers, but he held steady. “Boromir, you know you can tell me. Whatever it is. I’m not a quick judge.”

            “That’s a filthy lie,” he said, with a reluctant grin, and I returned it before murmuring, “Well, not now.” I paused. “Not with you.” He paused, briefly met my eye. “Boromir.”

            He exhaled suddenly, whenever I said his name. Like something drove the breath from his chest, every time I did it.

            “It’s…” suddenly, he was distressed, his voice lowered to a manic hiss, a hushed whisper, eyes wild and afraid. Ghost sat up, whining. “It’s the Ring.” Suddenly, he couldn’t face me, found his hands quite interesting as they wrung, wrung, wrung. I caught his hands in my own, impulsively, whispered, “You’re like to wear the skin off your hands doing that.” They were rough, and warm, slightly limp in mine before they squeezed back, lightly.

            “You probably think me weak now.”

            “I don’t,” I murmured, and he looked up suddenly, shocked, I could tell, by my response. I cracked him a smile, said, soft, “I feel it too, Boromir-” that shocked exhalation again, “- we all do. I may think you a bit thick to believe you’re the only one to bear that burden…” a sheepish look, sideways, a boyish glance about him that made me melt. “…but never weak. You’ve proved yourself over far too many times for me to ever believe…maybe I did, in the beginning. Not now.”

            He squeezed my hands, lightly, murmured, “thank you,” then, “you don’t know how much that…sets my mind at ease.” His smile took on a suddenly devilish quality, lip and brow quirking in tandem as he leaned closer, noses almost touching, breath fanning hotly over my lip, and he said, “Though I fear I couldn’t say the same for-”

            “Boromir, Gandalf found the way, we’re-” Pippin ground to a sudden halt a few feet away, and the Gondorim jerked back with a hissed curse and rubbed wearily at his no-doubt reddening temple, muttering, “We’ll be along. Go on, Pip.”

            The hobbit might’ve had doubts brought about by his demeanor, but they all were erased when Ghost gamboled in a circle around him and padded ahead, tongue lolling happily.

            I stood, shouldered my pack with a soft sigh, wondering if I’d ever get that kiss, wondering if my brother had something directly to do with its continual delay. Turning to the young steward, I could tell the same thing was crossing his thoughts, and I offered a slight smile, sighed and patted his elbow. “Come on, then.”

            He sighed, followed after, reluctantly.

            I trotted down the middle door after the others, looked up and around at the obvious wide space before us, apparent even in the dark. Gandalf slowed, held his staff higher, and whispered, “Let me risk a little more light.”

            The glow extended, illuminated down rows and rows of columns in the great stone hall. My eyes boggled, and I descended the steps, stopped by my brother’s side.

            “Behold, the great realm and dwarf city of Dwarrowdelf.”

            Our heads turned slowly around, trying to take it all in, and I heard Sam murmur dazedly, “Now there’s an eye-opener, and no mistake.”

            We began to move, in a slow reverent silence. A sudden shout from Gimli startled us all, and before anyone could so much as utter a protest the dwarf had shot off towards a small room to the side, a chamber lit by a single beam of light that penetrated the stone. I had to shield my eyes when I entered, even that was too much after the days of none to go by but Gandalf’s staff. I looked about at the skeletons, the weapons discarded and covered in a film of dust and cobwebs. Whoever had died here had done it a long time ago.

            “No,” Gimli mumbled, from the foot of the tomb, and dropped onto his knees. Stricken, he sobbed. “No.”

            Gandalf stepped up beside the stone, scowling, and brushing away the dust. Inscribed into the casket where runes, dwarvish runes I couldn’t read.

            “Here lies Balin, son of Fundin…Lord of Moria.” He took a step back. “He is dead, then. It is as I feared.”

            Gimli choked, and Boromir stepped slowly up behind him, laid a hand on his shoulder.

            Gandalf looked around, spotted a book and handed off his hat and his staff to Pippin. When he picked up the volume the spine cracked and several leafs fell out.

Legolas cast an anxious glance about the chamber, then spoke to Aragorn and I: “We must move on. We cannot linger.”

The wizard blew dust from the cover of the large book and opened the ancient volume, reading over the words in a low, grave voice. “They have taken the bridge, and the second hall. We have barred the gates, but cannot hold them for long. The ground shakes. Drums, drums in the deep.” He turned a page with care. My heart ricocheted in my chest. “We cannot get out. A Shadow moves in the dark. We cannot get out. They are coming.”

“Gandalf, that’s enough-” I started to hiss, but a sudden crash brought us all to a grinding halt.

Pippin turned suddenly to us all, away from the well, had the grace at least to flinch as the corpse tumbled down into the abyss, clattering and clunking, dragging a bucket and chain with it. The noise reverberated all over the mines, and we stood stock still, not even moving an eyeball as if that would somehow make us untraceable.

The cacophony faded away, and miraculously, it seemed we’d avoided detection. Soft sighs of relief were breathed, slowly we all began to relax.

Gandalf snapped the book shut.

“Fool of a Took!” he snapped, snatching back his hat, grabbing his staff. “Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!”

            “Oh, are we really going to do this?” I spat, when Pippin’s head went ashamedly down, but a noise, a noise so deceptively soft, stole away our attentions.

            _Doom._

Slowly, we turned to the well.

            _Doom doom doom._

            Sam hissed, and jabbed a finger at Frodo’s blade, Bilbo’s old “letter-opener” Sting, eyes widening at its frightening blue hue. “ _Frodo_!”

            _Doom doom doom doom doom doom doom doom-_

Shrieks and gurgles began to crawl in from the outside halls.

            “Orcs!” announced Legolas.

            “Well, _shit_ ,” I snapped, “orcs, really? I hadn’t known. _Shit_!”

            Boromir ran for the door and began to heave it shut. Aragorn dropped his torch and yelled to the hobbits, “Get back! Stay close to Gandalf!”

            I sprinted meanwhile for the doors, seized hold of the other and hauled it back to close the entrance, falling momentarily on the old wood and panting, noticing the arrows that had landed a bit too close to Boromir’s head. Roaring was clear audible outside, and he sounded about as dry as the Harad when he said, “They have a cave troll.”

            “Well, shit,” I said, catching the first spear that Legolas tossed to me and propping it against the door. We wedged in all we could before we stepped back, and Legolas, Aragorn and I all drew our bows, aiming at the shuddering doors.

            Gimli jumped atop the tomb and roared in defiant challenge. “Let them come! There is one dwarf yet in Moria that still draws breath!”

            Legolas put an arrow through the first crack chopped into the door, and the arrow shaft shuddered back from the crack, wailing. Aragorn shot one, and I thought I hit one before the doors began to bow under the assault and I slung my bow back into my quiver, ripped my sword from its scabbard and the knife from my hip. _You’ve never failed me before, Talagan, let’s not start now._

            A split second later the doors buckled, and then they caved.

            And that was when all hell broke loose.

            Orcs came at me by the tens. Ghost made the first kill, leaping up at one and snarling as he buried his teeth into its throat. I slipped into the battle-haze, kill kill kill everything that snarled and shrieked. A huge roar made me turn. The wall was smashed in as the promised troll appeared, bellowing and swinging a huge iron mace.

            Legolas shot an arrow. It stuck into the troll’s shoulder and the beast stared briefly at it before growling and advancing on Sam.

            “ _SAM, DIVE_!” I called, and almost immediately the hobbit obeyed without question. The mace came down on the floor, and he lifted a foot to quash Sam- at the last moment, something yanked it back.

            I traced the path back along the troll’s chain to Boromir and Aragorn both, pulling with all of their weight, and Aragorn dove aside as the troll rattled the metal links, spinning the line along Boromir’s forearm, and I caught a brief look of _well, shit_ before the beast yanked and sent him flying against the wall. I thought I heard a crack. Was that him? Oh, Béma, please don’t let it be him.

            Something knocked me over the head and sent me to the ground, and when the ceiling stopped spinning Ghost was standing protectively over me, muzzle blackened with orc blood.

            “Good boy,” I said faintly, slinging an arm about his broadening haunches and sitting up, staggering to my feet.

            “Frodo? _Frodo_!”

            I looked up to see Pippin on the troll’s back, stabbing at his neck, and when the beast threw its head back and roared an arrow sprouted suddenly from the back of its throat, and the company stepped back, back as the monster rumbled, swayed, touching stupidly at the blood leaking from its mouth before keeling over with a heavy _thud._ There was a sudden silence, and my heart began to pound when all eyes turned to a recess hidden from my sight. “Where’s Aragorn?”

            I rushed down to the others, repeated my question, and Boromir caught me, held me for the smallest of moments, panting from the exertion of the skirmish, gasping, “He’s alive, he’s fine, look.”

            I turned, spotted my brother on his knees, could barely sob with relief when I saw the small body he was slowly turning over.

            “Frodo,” I whispered. “Blessed Valar, Frodo.”

            I could hardly believe my ears when Frodo coughed suddenly, as he was rolled onto his back, nor my eyes when his own fluttered open, and he reached up to grasp at a tear in his shirt, coughing. Sam sat back suddenly, murmuring, “He’s alive.”

Frodo coughed again as he caught his breath. “I’m all right,” he wheezed, “I’m not hurt.”

“You should be dead,” Aragorn said, in disbelief, shaking his head slowly. “That spear would have skewered a wild boar.” I blinked at Boromir, and he mouthed _troll_ and pointed to a discarded longspear a few feet away.

“Ah,” I said aloud, lamely, head still swimming, and possibly telling me with impaired judgment that it was a good idea to return his goofy grin.

Gandalf leaned on his staff, smiling. “I think there’s more to this hobbit than meets the eye.”

            Frodo looked down to his shirt, unbuttoned and revealed shining white, a shade of silvery rings that made me smile. _Well, there’s a familiar sight._

“Mithril!” Gimli spoke, chuckling slightly. “You are full of surprises, Master Baggins.”

            Screeching from down the halls made us turn, muscles tensed and made ready to run, and at Gandalf’s command we shot off into the hall before us. “To the bridge of Khazad-Dûm!”

            Out the threshold we went, and was it just me or was it getting stuffier? Screeches rang out around us, and I looked up to see the orcs streaming out of cracks in the ceiling, down, in the floors, sideways, out of corridors and crossways. We slowed down, pressed into a tight circle as the sea of goblins closed around us.

            “Gentlemen,” I said, “It’s been an honor.” We faced out, raised our weapons, and prepared to fight to the last man.

            A sudden, guttural roar echoed from the end of the hall. The screeches around us turned at once to tremulous screams of fear. The orcs began to retreat, scrambling back, leaving us like an offering for some demonic god. Gimli laughed at their backs, like he thought he was the one to have scared them off.

            The rest of us, and him in turn, looked slowly to the end of the hall, where the air was beginning to shimmer and glow with a distant orange light.

            A slow step forward, from Boromir. “What is this new devilry?”

            I looked to Legolas, whose bow was drawn and knocked, but shaky hands lowered it slowly. I turned to the wizard, head bowed. Even as I watched he seemed to struggle to lift it, like some great weight sat on his shoulders as he told us, “A Balrog. A demon of the ancient world.” He swiveled around, faced the dark end of the hall, lighting with the amber glow of the devil behind us, and barked: “ _Run_!”

            Again, we took off at a dead sprint, another huge roar rattling the air behind us. I gave a ragged gasp and slid to a stop when Boromir halted suddenly, arms pinwheeling, torch plummeting into the depths below, and I realized _shit, no, he’s going to fall-_ seized him out of sheer panic and felt my heart stop when my boots started to skid down to the edge.

            Then there were arms around my sides, linking around us both and hauling us back to solid ground, where we all three slid to the ground, gasping and trembling from our close call. I looked and realized it was Legolas who had saved us, and I whispered, “Thank you.”

            “I owed you a debt,” he reminded, with a cocked brow and a smug smile (somehow he managed to turn on the sass even when he was flat on his arse), but the slight tremor in his voice spoke volumes too, loud volumes that told me inside he was screaming he had almost lost us.

            As I ushered the hobbits along I heard Gandalf’s whisper and turned to see him leaning heavily on the stone. “Lead them on, Aragorn,” he said, “the bridge is near.” I looked across the chasms to see the pillar extending, from one side to the other, and a staircase to our escape. Could the Balrog follow us out of the mines? “Do as I say!” the wizard shoved my brother out towards the rest of us, and in disregard to his look of shock: “Swords are no more use here.”

            Ghost pattered by my side, down the pillars until we encountered a gap. Legolas regarded it a brief second before gracefully leaping the distance, followed by Ghost. “Gandalf!” the elf beckoned, and after another deep, threatening roar that made the ceiling rumble, Gandalf jumped. The stone under his feet broke off, and the rest of us backed away, trading uncertain glances.

            “Sam,” Aragorn said, and he picked the hobbit up and tossed him down to Legolas, reaching next for Gimli, who held up a hand and barked, “Nobody tosses a dwarf!” turned, and leaped with a mighty battle yell, landing on the opposite edge and starting to tip back. The elf lunged and grabbed his beard (“ _Not the beard_!”), stopping him at the last second, pulled him back up.

            Something whizzed past my ear. I turned and saw orcs, standing from the parapets against the walls, bows in hand, shooting down at us like fish in a barrel. I hissed, because by that time I’d had more than efucking _nough_ of these orcs bullying us and there was a demon on our tail and I was sick and _tired_ of these motherfucking goblins in these motherfucking mines. So I whipped out my bow, put a few arrowheads between a few eyes, and called, “Go, go! I’ll hold them off!”

            Boromir nodded, called, “Merry! Pippin!” tucked them each under an arm, and jumped. The rock shattered as he left, and Frodo, Aragorn and I backed up once again.

            The Balrog roared once more. The ceiling rumbled, then something cracked. I turned just in time to see a boulder break free and come crashing down for the pillar, and snapped into my senses with a distant cry of “ _Gléoláf!_ ” Without a second thought I turned and took a wild leap down for the others.

            A strong pair of arms stopped my fall, and gently set me down, whispering, “Watch your bow.” I pulled it around safely, tucked it behind my back and stared up at Boromir. “Now, really, darling, we’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he quirked a lip, an eyebrow, and I couldn’t help but flutter a little inside ( _he called me darling! Me!_ )before a rumble reminded me of the situation at hand and I turned, gasped, and watched my brother and the Ringbearer on a pillar of stone swaying for the abyss.

            It went to the right, and slowly they leaned to the left. The pillar went to the left, and they leaned to the right. There was a loud _crunch_ as the stone righted itself, I caught a murmur on the wind, “Lean forward,” and slowly they began to fall our way. My heart continued to pound in my throat until at last, Legolas whispered, “come on,” and they jumped forward into our waiting arms. As we turned and put the treacherous ground behind us, I heard the fate they narrowly escaped in a cacophony of shattering stone.

            “Over the bridge!” Gandalf roared, as we rounded the corner, stopping and seeing us by, flames at our back. “Fly!”

            One by one we crossed the narrow bridge, single file, piling up at the other end, turning and watching with eyes wide as saucers as Gandalf halted suddenly on the bridge, turned and faced the being of shadow and flame that stared him down, filling the space with dark and fire and glaring him down with an almighty snort. “You cannot pass!”

            “Gandalf!” it was Frodo’s voice that cut through, I don’t know who else might have screamed.

            The Balrog drew forth a red sword, raised it high above its head and brought it down on Gandalf’s conjured shield. It roared again, and the wizard challenged: “I am a servant of the secret fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. The dark fire will not avail you, Flame of Udûn!”

            The Balrog drew forth a flaming whip and swung it away into the darkness. Sparks flared where it cracked. “Go back to the shadow!” snarled Gandalf, raising his staff and sword together and bellowing in a voice that shook the very ground, “ _YOU SHALL NOT PASS_!” he slammed his weapons down before him onto the bridge, a blue light emanating around the stone. The fiery demon cocked its head, snorted, and charged.

            The rock rumbled and then cracked beneath its feet, and mere seconds before it reached Gandalf it fell, spiraling away into the shadowy dark. The wizard watched over the edge, sighed, looking more wearied than ever: and then he turned, to come back to us.

            The coil of a fiery whip spliced up and lashed around his ankle. With a grunt he was brought down to cling to the edge, Glamdring and staff tumbling down after the devil, fingers just barely clinging on to the stone. Frodo sprinted down for the end of the bridge, Aragorn was frozen, and Boromir did a double-take, a one-two that seemed to come in slow motion before reaching out, blocking the hobbit’s path with an arm, yelling “ _No, no_!”

            “ _Gandalf_!”

            The wizard groaned, began to haul himself up, and then slipped again. I took a slow step forward, then froze, cold dread creeping over me like icy death, like Forochel over again. The feeling when you realize that there’s nothing more you can do to stop the Void, and you’re paralyzed.

            Perhaps the dead don’t feel it, because Gandalf hissed at us, “Fly, you fools!” before he slid over the edge.


	22. XX: Despair, Hope: Faith, Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When my sobs quieted and I stopped shaking, Galadriel knelt beside where my quavering knees had dropped me, and brushed the wet from my face, where the tears had cut tracks through the dirt and grime there. “Your part in this quest is almost over. Another is yet to begin. Soon you must leave your Fellowship behind, and trust to faith.”
> 
> “I have no plans to die,” I whispered, fingers squeezing uselessly in my lap. “Nor to let him do so.”
> 
> “None do,” she told me, with a sympathetic look, as she stood

**XX: Despair, Hope: Faith, Love**

_January 24_

            A gut-wrenching scream is what I recall. A single, heart-rending note of despair, poured into one lingering interjection. I heard Boromir call my brother’s name from somewhere, as I ran out into the sun, blinding, blessed sun, warm on my skin, failing to reach the cold void inside of me. I trembled with it, shivered, leaned against stone for support.

            I trembled, first with cold, and then with fury. Fury, because I was weak, because I had been weak. I wiped at the tears on my cheeks with a sudden violence, ripped out my sword from its sheath and took to the nearest rock, shrieking a bloody string of curses blacker than the void inside, shrinking slowly back like it always did, when I frightened it like this. It would have to retreat to the deepest part of my gut again, and grow blacker than before. I hacked at the boulder; not to grow strong, but to keep from becoming weak.

            Andúril gleamed as Aragorn wiped the blood from the blade. “Legolas,” he said, “Get them up.”

            “Give them a moment, for pity’s sake!” came Boromir, sounding positively disgusted, offended, perhaps.

            “By nightfall these hills will be swarming with orcs,” snapped Aragorn, and a ring announced Andúril sliding home. “We must reach the woods of Lothlórien. Come on, Legolas, Boromir. Get them up. Frodo!” I unleashed another bout of fury onto the rock, cursing in the back of my throat until I was little more than gurgling as I swung wildly, feeling my teeth jar with every blow.

            Then suddenly, someone was behind me. “Gléoláf. _Gléoláf_. Stop this. Stop this at once.” I jarred to a sudden halt, wheezing in my trial, panting from exertion and fighting back the tears from the void. I turned to Boromir, watched dumbly as he said in a stern sureness I’d heard sometime before, “Cut it out and pull yourself together.”

            “Why should I pull myself together, did you see-” I had to stop, gasping hysterically for breath, “-he fell, he fell with a demon, he fell into _hell_!”

            His face was still stern, but…pitying, and by heaven he’d stung me now. No one dared pity me. “Is this the first time you’ve lost a soldier?”

            “We are _not_ soldiers!” I spat, the fire in my words, and I turned to hack at the boulder once more with feeling before he pinned my arm with ease to the cliffside, and said to me through gritted teeth: “Look, you want to be a spoiled brat later, then fine. As for now, they need you.” He gestured off towards the hobbits. “ _We_ need you, with a good sword and your wits about you.” He glanced at my blade, scuffed and dented with the abuse I’d inflicted on the rock. “Though it seems the former is a bust.”

            “I have knives,” I muttered, and he nodded, frantically, almost as if he was relieved to see me coming back, creeping away from the edge I’d been toeing, between rhyme and reason. “Then leave the sword, Gléoláf, and use them. We need you. I need you.” His voice caught, and suddenly he pulled me in and kissed me. Some freeze when they finally get that longed-for embrace, but I wasted no time in pressing readily into him as his arms went around my waist.

            There was a question there, at first. A tentative inquiry. _Is this all right?_ My tongue nudged at the seam of his lips. _Yes._

            His lips parted in a sigh and a breath, and I pushed inside, tasting the restraint, the unspoken words; _this doesn’t mean anything,_ and I wrapped my arms up around broad shoulders tight with tension, stood on toe to be closer, asked him, _nothing? Nothing at all?_

He broke for air, hesitating, tensing to flee. It was easier to flee than to answer. Bravely, he came back, and his lips were chaste and gentle on mine. _If that is what you wish._

            He pulled away, looking at me for some sort of confirmation, and before he could doubt, or speak, or _turn_ , I leaned and pushed on him the briefest of kisses. _It isn’t._

            Boromir drew back, eyes brimming over with questions, questions I silenced with a hand run down shoulder to arm to hand, which I briefly squeezed.

            It was a promise in itself, a promise to have words when we had a chance, to speak our pieces at a better time, to ask ourselves what much more we wanted than nothing. _Later,_ I said, and I turned to scale the ridge and follow the others. He came after me, and at last we left the hellish nightmare of Moria behind us, the broad glare of daylight offering us some shelter from the memories that would haunt us for years to come.

            The lingering shudders and snivels lasted for hours after. Dusk was upon us as we reached the borders, creeping under the trees and looking about at the slow-falling leaves, fluttering to the undergrowth as if in a trance.

            “Stay close, young hobbits,” Gimli whispered, someplace behind me. “They say an enchantress lives in these woods. An elf-witch, of terrible power. All who look upon her fall under her spell…”

            Frodo gave a disturbed pause, but I wondered a moment later if I had imagined it when he began to walk once more.

            “…and are never seen again.”

            “Mr. Frodo?” at Sam’s inquiry I turned back again, and knew it couldn’t have been my imagination. Frodo started suddenly, and walked again.

            “There are none here who will trouble us,” I said, softly. Gimli gave no sign of hearing, though, blustered on: “Well, here’s one dwarf she won’t ensnare so easily. I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox!” not a fraction of a second later an arrowhead pressed into his nose. Legolas moved in a flash, held his own bow aloft, and I turned in a slow circle, watched as the archers surrounded us, clad in the soft, ashy greys of the trees and the winter ground.

            “The dwarf breathes so loud,” spoke the leader, stepping between two I recognized, “We could have shot him in the dark.”

            I tagged the patrol leader in an instant, and how could I not? He was the first to have held my heart in his hands and broken it into a thousand pieces with his carelessness. “Haldir Naiorien, you’ll address members of my company with more respect.”

            At my sharp rebuke there was a sudden murmuring and turning of heads, and a slow part in the ranks of the Fellowship to let me forward. Conscious of the dirt and grime I undoubtedly bore; I made no move to clean it and instead bore it proud and held my head high. “He’s Gimli son of Glóin, sir, I’d ask you refer to him as befitting one dear to your princess.”

            His mouth had been hanging open, but at that he shut it tightly. I cleared my throat, turned to the others: “You know my brother Lord Aragorn, rightful king of Gondor and the North Kingdom. Prince Legolas, son of the King Thranduil. Gimli son of Glóin, as I said, Masters Baggins, Gamgee, Took, and Brandybuck, and Boromir son of Denethor, steward-prince of Gondor and the White City.” I turned back, crossed my arms and declared, “I wish to be taken to my lord and lady, posthaste.”

            Haldir narrowed his eyes. “My lady, your company has a dark hanging over it that would be ill suit to bring into the woods.”

            “You’d turn your princess and her companions out to face a tide of orcs come out from Moria?”

            He hesitated, jaw working as if chewing his words, but he gestured us finally, deeper into the woods, up into a flet within safe distance of the border. Still, though, I knew the debate had only begun.

            “Who is this?” Boromir spoke quietly from behind me.

            “Haldir. Son of Naior, and those two over there are his brothers Rúmil and Orophin. Bother not with them, they know very little of the common speech.” I shrugged slightly at his questioning look, admitted with a soft sigh, “We were lovers, once. A long time ago, when I was a blushing maid. And, believe me, that was a long time ago. I found him in bed with another woman, and…well, that was the end of that. Like I said, a long time ago.” I strode ahead to where he was greeting my brother and the elf, turned back in time to hear the steward-prince speak softly to Frodo: “Gandalf’s death was not in vain. Nor would he have you give up hope. You carry a heavy burden, Frodo. Don’t carry the weight of the dead.”

            And now I wondered, why anyone would have the capacity to call him insufferable. Perhaps only those who didn’t listen. Perhaps those who only glimpsed, and saw merely a tall man with a fair and noble face, dark-haired and grey-eyed, proud and stern of glance.

“ _Mae govannen, Legolas Thranduilion_ ,” said Haldir softly to the elven-prince, welcoming, who replied: “ _Govannas vîn gwennen le, Haldir o Lórien._ ”

_(Welcome, Legolas, son of Thranduil. […] Our Fellowship stands in your debt, Haldir of Lórien.)_

“ _A Aragorn in Dúnedain_ ,” said the warden, turning then to my brother. _“Istannen le ammen_.” He looked at me once, lips working before he begrudged me a “Princess.”

_(And Aragorn of the Dunedain. You are known to us.)_

Aragorn nodded, ever gracious. “Haldir-”

            “So much for the legendary courtesy of the elves!” spat Gimli, cutting him off. “Speak words we can all understand!”

Tersely again, Haldir deadpanned, “We have not had dealings with the dwarves since the dark days.”

“And do you know what this dwarf says to that?” said my fellow, rising to the bait: “ _Ishkhaqwi ai durugnul!_ ”

_(I spit upon your grave! [Khuzdul])_

Aragorn stepped up, flashing a disapproving look down, clasping Gimli’s shoulder: “That was not so courteous.”

            “I don’t know, why shouldn’t he let off some steam?” I quipped, giving Haldir as venomous an eye I could muster. “He verily has a point.”

Haldir ignored the jab; his next words were for Frodo, soft. “You bring great evil with you.” He turned abruptly to us, around, crossed the flet in a few swift strides. “You can go no further.”

“That isn’t for you to decide,” I said, sharply, following after with Aragorn in tow. “Haldir, I don’t give a damn about our bringing great evil, if you care even in the slightest you’ll let us in and guard your borders a hundredfold, because if what’s out there accosts us at our weakest, you’ll have none but yourselves to blame when your woods burn.” We faced each other down, glaring, and I tugged a glove off and flashed my ring. “I. Am. Your. Princess. You. Are my soldier. Let. Us. In. That’s an order from the highest and if you aren’t going to listen to me I will have you removed henceforth from your command.”

Haldir looked aside, hissing between his teeth. A long moment passed. Finally, he turned back, and his composure was returned.

“You will follow me.”

He led us down the beaten path, among the winding forest roads of Lórien. Whispers in the outlying flets made a chorus, and dusk was in when we crested the ridge overlooking the capital, and said to us all, “Caras Galadhon. The heart of Elvendom on earth.” He sounded almost proud. “Realm of the Lord Celeborn and of Galadriel, Lady of Light.”

“My queen matron,” I provided. “One of them, anyway. Lead the way, warden.” Haldir spared a soft sigh as he passed, taking us down into the valley and the cluster of the trees.

Dark fell quickly, and the lights were glowing in the trees when we crossed the innermost borders, walked among the little houses in the massive Mellyrn roots, some emerging to watch, bowing smoothly when they recognized me. Up the tallest tree we went, in a staircase that wrapped around the trunk like a lover’s embrace. We reached the grand court after a few upward moments, a bright glow issuing from the top, as the lord and lady came to meet us.

Some of us bowed. Others, newer, gaped.

The first to speak was Celeborn, my grandmother’s father, on my mother’s side. “The Enemy knows you have entered here. What hope you had in secrecy is now gone.” He scanned our ranks, eyes narrowing lightly, lips pursing. “Nine that are here, yet ten there were, set out from Rivendell. Tell me, where is Gandalf? For I much desire to speak with him… I can no longer see him from afar.”

An oppressive silence fell over us all. Galadriel, so far silent, looked at us all, and I swallowed hard when her eyes locked with my brother’s, knowing, she was finding the answers there.

“Gandalf the Grey did not pass the borders of this land.”

Celeborn looked at her, brows creasing. “He has fallen into Shadow.”

“Shadow and flame,” I said, stepping forward. “He was taken by a Balrog of Morgoth…an unfortunate chain of events forced our hand. We went needlessly into the net of Moria.” I knelt. “ _Gail síla erin lû e-govaned ‘wîn; brennil vell, brannon vell. Gwannas lû and_.”

_(A star shines upon the hour of our meeting; beloved lady, beloved lord. It has been too long.)_

Celeborn tilted my chin up, then offered his hand to let me stand, and I moved slowly to his side. Galadriel spoke. “Needless were none of the deeds of Gandalf in life. We do not yet know his full purpose.” She looked then, to Gimli, with bowed head and tangled beard. “Do not let the great emptiness of Khazad-dûm fill your heart, Gimli, son of Glóin. For the world has grown full of peril. And in all lands love is now mingled with grief.” I saw her eyes drift, further back, to Boromir, and almost immediately he started to tremble, shake, and he bit off a sob before turning away, biting down ferociously on his lip. Alarmed, I cast the Lady a look, but she had fallen silent, her eyes lost their piercing edge, and I could only worry what upsetting images she’d filled my steward’s head with.

“What now becomes of this Fellowship?” questioned Celeborn, beside me. “Without Gandalf, hope is lost.”

“The quest stands upon the edge of a knife,” she agreed. “Stray but a little and it will fail to the ruin of all.” Her eyes flickered to Sam, who gazed upon her with an open awestruck wonder, and smiled. “Yet hope remains while the Company is true.” Suddenly as the moment had begun it was over, and she was looking out over us all again, speaking soft words of dismissal: “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Go now and rest, for you are weary with sorrow and much toil. Tonight you will sleep in peace.”

Haldir gestured for the company to follow and I started to trail after, trotting to catch up to Boromir, take his hand, but Galadriel called my name softly and I halted. When I turned I had her eyes. _Walk with me, dŷr._

 _Yes, my lady._ Ghost pattered along by my side as I followed her, returning Celeborn’s brief, bitter half-smile before turning and leaving us to go. I folded my hands, fell into step with her, and questioned, “What did you tell the Gondorim?”

She gave me one of her wise all-knowing looks, and said smoothly, “Only the truth.” She looked back ahead, still stepping slowly, and I realized her fingers were locked much like mine. “Things that were. Things that are. And things that have not yet come to pass.” She had my eyes again. _You love him, henig._

 _I do._ There was no room to lie. I had no desire to anyway. “I would know what upset him.”

“A future that may yet come to pass,” she said, turning and continuing to walk. Ghost pattered after her and I brought up the rear, swallowing hard past a sudden lump in my throat. “His city crumbles as he is away. It is what he fears; the shattering of the country he loves and pledges to, the place he calls home. Already it calls. In the coming days it will only become stronger.”

I halted. “Stop speaking in riddles and tell me what you mean.”

She paused as well, locked eyes with me. _You have not foreseen what is to pass? Your company…ripping apart at the seams as it takes them…one by one by one…_ the images swirled in my brain and I squeezed my eyes shut, breaking the bond, looking away and panting like he had, fists tight at my sides.

Ghost whined.

Finally, I opened them.

“Eventually, even you will fall prey to its lure of power.” I yanked off my glove and stared at the ring-shaped scar. Faint, but ever-present. I clenched my hand into a fist and squeezed my eyes shut, so tight tears pricked at the corners.

“You’ll speak to Frodo about this?” I grated, finally, fighting the sudden urge to curl up and weep, knowing she was right, knowing that the company was nearing its breaking point, that soon our Fellowship would have to go its separate ways, for the sake of everything. Inside, still, it made me hurt. We’d failed, after all, in a fashion.

“I will.” I raised my eyes, and she showed me a corpse, strewn with great black arrows the width of my thumb. _He will break first._

With a jagged gasp I saw the dead man’s face, ashen and shocked in the wake of so much pain, a trickle of scarlet blood welling at the corner of parted lips, grey eyes opened to the world in an unending stare. I closed my eyes, not fighting the tears that time, just letting them fall, letting them go.

When my sobs quieted and I stopped shaking, Galadriel knelt beside where my quavering knees had dropped me, and brushed the wet from my face, where the tears had cut tracks through the dirt and grime there. “Your part in this quest is almost over. Another is yet to begin. Soon you must leave your Fellowship behind, and trust to faith.”

“I have no plans to die,” I whispered, fingers squeezing uselessly in my lap. “Nor to let him do so.”

“None do,” she told me, with a sympathetic look, as she stood. Ghost nosed forward, licking gently at my cheek. “Listen to him,” she said softly, stroking a hand along the wolf’s back. “You may find he has much to tell you.” She turned, slowly, and drifted away.

I wrapped my arms around Ghost’s neck. With a soft snuffle he lifted his head, helping to pull me up. He was growing strong, in my care, and that if anything was reassuring. I got up to my feet and stroked the soft fur of his ears, smiling a bittersweet smile and making to follow my company down to where they had been taken to rest.


	23. XXI: Things We Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It wasn’t important-” he began, and I couldn’t let him finish, because that was what he did, played his essentiality down until no one could even see it anymore.
> 
> “It was important,” I spat, feverishly rewinding the bandage correctly, using a fresh side, securing it more properly with two hands than what he’d done presumably with just his right. “It is important. You’re important, damn it.” He stared back at my furious scowl, stunned, before we both suddenly lunged at each other and met in a furious, impassioned kiss. Mouths mostly open, tongues sliding feverishly together in a frantic duel for dominance, my hands fisting in his surcoat and clenching when he slid back suddenly and we both went tumbling off of the Mallorn root we’d been sitting on.
> 
> Somehow he ended up with his back in the grass, and I straddled over his hips, hands at his chest, leaning over him, breath coming in heavy gasps, his eyes wide up at me, pupils blown dark and wide over thin rims of grey.
> 
> “I shouldn’t have to tell you that, you know.”

**XXI: Things We Know**

_January 24_

            I spared no time getting down to where the others rested, finding them eventually in a clearing, softly-lit by the lanterns nearby, beds made under the protective shadows of the Mellyrn roots. Some were already asleep, namely the hobbits and Gimli. Legolas was seated by a fountain with a pitcher in his hands, listening silently to the haunting lament for Mithrandir weaving its way through the trees above. I listened as well, for a moment, gave the elf a brief nod before continuing on my way. The two men I was looking for couldn’t have gone very far.

            Lo and behold, I heard my brother’s voice just on the other side of the farthermost tree to the clearing, cajoling, reassuring: “Take some rest. These borders are well-protected.”

            “I will find no rest here,” came Boromir, snappish like only I knew how, but vulnerable, lashing out from fear, stubbornness, an unbending will not to believe. “I heard her voice inside my head. She spoke of my father and the fall of Gondor.”

            My heart went out to him, and I peered from the edges of the shadows at the way his hands wrung, wrung, worried as always, the broken look in his eyes, the proud, desperate determination that had kept Gondor alive. I think, in that moment if any, I was the most in love with him as I’ve ever been. Here was a man who knew he was just that; a man. A man, who could do little in a lifetime so bitterly short, incapable of standing against something so much huger than himself. And yet still he tried, for love of country, for the love of family, for the faint and fading hope that one day a king would return and his home would be as it once was. I saw all this, in his bowed back and the deep creases in his brow and around his mouth, the lines by his eyes and the dark circles beneath them. In the anxious rub and clench of his hands, the old fading lines and the red puckering marks of inflicted hurts. I saw it all and knew; here was a man who would break before he bent. Here was a man who would fight until he was bleeding from a hundred wounds, a man who would battle like twenty armies and never, never _dream_ of giving up.

            Here was a man, who put his life aside for the kingdom. Here was a man of Gondor.

            “She said to me ‘Even now there is hope left,’” he muttered, shaking his head at Aragorn, seated by his side. “But I cannot see it. It is long since we had any hope. My father is a noble man, but his rule is failing, and now our…” his voice wavered on a note. “…our people lose faith.” A shuddering breath trembled shoulders that bore the heavy weight of the world upon their breadth. “He looks to me to make things right and I would do it. I would see the glory of Gondor restored.” Distant, suddenly, his lips curled in almost a smile. “Have you ever seen it Aragorn? The White Tower of Ecthelion, glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver… its banners caught high in the morning breeze. Have you ever been called home, by the clear ringing of silver trumpets?”

            My brother looked at him, dully, bittersweet, I knew. He looked to the ground, admitted, “I have seen the White City, long ago.”

            “One day our paths will lead us there,” said Boromir, with a quiet, feverish excitement I had only seen before at the Council. “And the tower guards shall take up the call: ‘the Lords of Gondor have returned!’”

            Aragorn could offer only the bitter smile, the mark of melancholy, rising, dropping a hand to his shoulder and resting briefly before moving off, and he passed me briefly, giving me a look that I held for a half a second, before turning away, hesitating at the edge of the clearing. I took a step in, and then another, and sat quietly down by his side. “My brother isn’t far off. You haven’t been sleeping lately, don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

            He raised his head.

            “Gandalf told me before we left Rivendell to watch,” I murmured. “And…perhaps I care, a mite.”

            Boromir briefly chuckled, looked up to the stars and sighed. “I feel I’m away too long.” I didn’t have to ask, _away from what,_ to know what he meant. “I…I fear that…that thing is claiming dominion over me, I…” he squeezed his eyes shut, screwing his face up tight, pained. “…I want to go home.”

            Those five syllables had never served to sound so broken.

            He winced suddenly, lifting his left hand and tugging at a scrap of fabric wrapped tight around his palm, and I gasped softly when I saw the red, tugging it closer, nearer to me, unwrapping it quick. “You’re hurt.” I looked up at him suddenly, brows knitting, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

            “It wasn’t important-” he began, and I couldn’t let him finish, because that was what he did, played his essentiality down until no one could even see it anymore.

            “It _was_ important,” I spat, feverishly rewinding the bandage correctly, using a fresh side, securing it more properly with two hands than what he’d done presumably with just his right. “It _is_ important. You’re important, damn it.” He stared back at my furious scowl, stunned, before we both suddenly lunged at each other and met in a furious, impassioned kiss. Mouths mostly open, tongues sliding feverishly together in a frantic duel for dominance, my hands fisting in his surcoat and clenching when he slid back suddenly and we both went tumbling off of the Mallorn root we’d been sitting on.

            Somehow he ended up with his back in the grass, and I straddled over his hips, hands at his chest, leaning over him, breath coming in heavy gasps, his eyes wide up at me, pupils blown dark and wide over thin rims of grey.

            “I shouldn’t have to tell you that, you know.”

            He reached up, hand fair trembling, fingers shaking as they brushed my hair back, his touch feather light against my cheek. I wanted to lean into the caress, close my eyes and surrender to everything, but not here, not yet.

            I stood slowly, reached out and offered him my hand, helped him to his feet before I took his hands, laced our fingers, stepped up close into his space, nuzzled into the skin exposed by the clasps undone in his undertunic. “I need a bath. Care to join me?” his nose pressed gently into my hair, and I murmured, “We’ll go to my rooms after. There’s a hearth for a fire and my personal stock of Dorwinion and a very soft bed.”

            He sighed suddenly into my forehead, wrapped strong arms around me and pulled me close, holding me up as much as steadying his own feet. “I love you.”

            I slid hands around his waist, stood on toe and propped my chin on his shoulder. “I know.”

            When he chuckled I felt it through all of me, and it teased a smile from my lips, and I allowed one brief caress for the side of his neck before sinking to my heels, stepping back, quirking an eyebrow, and leading the way to the baths.

            All the way he was behind me, in tow like a faithful dog (I realized Ghost had gone; but I was far from worried- the wolf was more than self-sufficient), into the bathhouses, quiet for the hour- only a few maidens were in the public pools (and part of me was tempted to chide them for being up past their bedtimes) chattering happily away, undoubtedly gossiping. They fell silent with soft gasps and slid up to the bridges of their noses in the water as I trudged by, Boromir after me.

            Wordlessly, I found the spare key to my private chambers, unlocked them and showed him inside, slipping in after him, closing the door behind us both. The water there was throwing off steam that had me almost ready to jump in totally clothed, and I realized Boromir was looking at me before I waved a hand at the water. “I’ll be in in a moment.” I walked over to the cabinets and started pulling out soaps, towels and whatnot, and stopped for a moment, briefly distracted by the heavy clink of his mail hitting the tile. _Take a breath, Gléoláf, no need to be peeking like some fervid maid. Now, let’s all pretend you have some idea what you’re doing._ I finished gathering up everything I needed and turned just in time to watch him slide into the water.

            I dropped everything (thankfully, it all landed on the towel). Boromir turned and gave me a look, but I just shrugged, sparing a cough and tugging on the buckles of my shoulder guards. My pride was quickly salvaged, seeing the continuous glances he put my way as I disrobed.

            I left everything heaped in a pile, tore my hair out of its bindings and shook it out before pattering to the water’s edge and sliding down all the way over my head. I stayed under for a few moments; eyes squeezed tightly shut, submerged in the warmth. When I came back up and shook my sodden hair out of my eyes, he was right before me, smiling and up to his chest in the water, and he stroked a wet lock of hair behind my ear before tipping my chin up for a kiss, hot and wet and hungry, his hands dipping beneath the surface and sliding down the length of my body, a touch I stepped back out of after his fingers curled around my hips.

            “I hope I’m not taking untoward liberties…” his hands cupped my elbows again.

            “No,” I trailed a finger down his chest. “Patience. Wash up.”

            Perhaps the only more distracting thing than personally soaping up his quite-impressive physique (an option I’d briefly debated before deciding I’d much prefer we ended up in a bed; and to swing that particular claymore I’d probably have to keep my hands off of him and vice versa until then) was watching him do it himself, running hands over taut muscles and tracing old lines left by scars, rubbing methodically at his scalp an grimacing while he yanked all the tangles from his hair, longer when it was wet, dropping soddenly over his shoulders, sleek and black.

            “You see something you like?” he quipped, and I jumped a little, dropping the soap and cursing, scrabbling until I retrieved it. He grinned and I stuck my tongue out, finishing rubbing down my left foot beneath the surface and jumping with a muted shriek (dropping the soap _again_ ) when he pounced suddenly on my back, whispering into my ear, “I could think of better places to be putting that.” His thumb traced over my bottom lip, and I exhaled in a sudden, shuddery breath, feeling the ironclad muscle of his broad chest pressing into my back. “Are you done?” I nodded, and he drew back, glided to the rim of the pool and hoisted himself up on thick-corded arms to the edge, wrapping a towel up and around his waist, waiting for me to retrieve the soap again and put it back.

            I came up too, shuddering briefly at the loss of heat, but feeling blessedly clean. With a soft sigh I toweled off my hair and wrapped the fabric around me, walking to the door. “My rooms aren’t far. We can leave our things here; they’ll be cleaned and returned there tomorrow.”

            He followed obediently after me as I left the bathhouses, the public pools empty now as well, and out into the sharp chill of the night. I took a cheeky glance back, grinned, and said out of a sudden careless impulse, “Bet you can’t catch me.”

            I tore off without another word, and heard his abbreviated shout before footfalls behind announced him pursuing me, and when his laugh sounded close behind me I put on another burst of speed, shooting up the stairs in the sides of the Mellyrn, rattling across a suspended bridge between the public flet and the one housing my own chambers and shooting inside, giggling as I jumped onto the bed and burrowed under the covers, just barely ahead of him. “I’ve got you now,” he said, and without even attempting to dig me out he seized the entire bundle of covers and me and lifted it all up into the air, touting it up in the air before dropping it again, and when I poked my head out I was staring right back at him, propped up on his chest, looking right back at his lazy smirk. He was propped easily up against the pillows, toying with a bit of my golden hair, only a tangle of bedding and two towels separating us.

            “Hello, love.”

            I sat up, retying the towel in front of me and sliding from the bed, moving on silent feet to start the fire with the tinderbox on the mantle, poking the logs and the kindling until the flames began to lick their way up in the hearth. A warm glow was thrown over the room and I flashed him a backward glance, spotted him with the bedcovers rearranged, propped lazily up onto the mattress with one leg drawn languidly up, towel bunching over his thigh, arms stretched up and hands behind his head. He quirked an eyebrow at me and I opened the hatch to my little cellar, wiggling my brows back at him before descending and plucking the most obscene vintage I could find, collecting two glasses and reemerging, debating the merits of slipping into some sort of nightclothes, before I spotted the look on his face and the way his eyes ran over the cleavage on display by the slipping bath towel, and decided it would be a shame to make getting me naked any more difficult.

            I set my parcels down on the bedside table, sat down at the edge of the bed and poured two glasses, shifting around to put one in his hand. He shifted up to sit on crossed legs, tapping our glasses together with a soft _clink_ and saying softly, “To Gandalf,” before he drank.

            “To Gandalf,” I agreed, “May his memory live long.”

            He sipped again at the red I’d poured, sifting it around in the glass and eyeing the fingers that trailed down the side. “This is a good bottle. What’s the year?”

            I leaned over to check the label. “2996. Dorwinion.”

            “It’s very good.”

            “I’m the heir apparent here; I have access to all the best things.” I grinned a little, swallowing again and giving him a look. He cocked an eyebrow, drained the rest of the glass and set it aside, watched as I followed his lead, crawled up the length of the bedspread and propped up on my side, playing my fingers with his, smiling softly at him. He raised an eyebrow, took my hand and pulled it forward, pressing his lips to my knuckles, eyes falling to half-mast, thick dark lashes brushing his cheeks. “I wasn’t jesting with you earlier. I meant what I said.”

            “Yes,” I murmured, and he let my hand go, moving his fingers to my ear, toying with my hair again. He smiled softly, lip quirking slightly at the corner. “I will tell you now that I’ve had my share of bedmates.”

            “As have I.” If he thought after everything that was going to be the thing to drive me off, he had another thing coming.

            “I want to do something, though,” he hesitated, then he ghosted roughened knuckles across my cheek, breath catching slightly in his throat, lips just barely parted, pupils gone wide and dark, breaching thin rims of grey. “That I haven’t done before.”

            My pulse quickened in anticipation, breath hitching so slightly in apprehension. “Yes?”

            He kissed my forehead, and when he leaned in close our noses were touching. “I want to make love with you. Can I do that? Please, Gléoláf, let me love you.”

            In that split second everything seemed to crash over me like a wave, and every inch of me thrummed with desire. I wanted to touch him everywhere, as much as I could, and it was all I could to gasp, “Yes.”

            In a second he shifted over me, braced on his forearms and took my lips in a sweet, hungry kiss, and a moment later I had his face framed in my hands, trying to ground myself, avoid those soft noises that were fighting their way from my throat. He braced a knee between my thighs, pulled his tongue out of my mouth and set it to the juncture of my neck and my jaw, nibbling lightly, kissing his way down to where my shoulder sloped out and sucking a mark there, smoothing over the slight sting with a soft kiss, swiping his tongue over the flushing spot and whispering, “Mine.”

            “Boromir,” I said, soft, as he tugged off the loosely-wrapped towel and looked widely over my naked body, skimming his hands lightly down my sides with an open reverence, tracing the curves of my hips with calloused thumbs, murmuring soft, “Beautiful,” and shifting down again, laving his tongue gently over the swell of my breast, beard prickling when he sucked a nipple between his teeth, grazing so lightly, watching me when my hand tangled into his hair. I murmured low when he let the first go, pebbled and red and tingling in the open air, despite the fire crackling before us. He teased the other with the flat of his tongue, towing a gasp out of me, hips rocking and pushing against the knee between my legs, oblivious while he suckled on my neck and cupped the stiff peaks gently in his hands, rough and so, so big, more than enough to hold them, hold me. _Hold me, please, don’t ever let me go…_

            My eyes opened ever so slightly when I felt him rise, shifting down, kissing my stomach and my left hip before his breath fanned across my center, wet and thrumming and so, so ready to be touched. My fingers wound into his hair, and he gave me a questioning look, tongue darting out to moisten his lips. “I dreamed of you,” I confessed, in a soft voice, a low one, almost as if I didn’t want him to hear. He flattened a palm lightly over my stomach, callouses rubbing slightly. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, and I let my head fall back, staring at the ceiling, breath coming hot and heavy as I felt him closing in. A flicker of tongue, a hint of teeth, and a long, deep kiss. “ _Oh_.”

            He ate into me like a starving man at a feast, took me to new flaming heights in a whirlwind of sensation, had me tugging desperately at his hair while my toes curled and my legs quivered and my cunt tremored, already dripping from the anticipation, the final paying-off of months of sexual tension expressed only in brief interludes in the dark reaches of the night, the simple fact that I was coming to the end of a six-month dry streak, and I was a ball of bliss as he worked a finger then two into me, making low gratified noises almost as loud as the wet sound of his lips and tongue working, fingers sliding slick, twisting, pressing inside, rubbing my spasming walls, rubbing his hand soothingly over my hip as I moaned higher, higher, timbre rising, pitch rocketing with every smooth stab of his fingers, every pull of his lips on the tender bud just shy of my entrance, and it all exploded like a summer squall, insides tightening frantically around fingers that kept on sliding, slower now, thumb sliding gently outside until the aftershocks wore off, left me boneless on the coverlet, but I knew in a few minutes it would be a different story.

            The first flickers of desire started again when he lifted his head up and I saw his chin dripping wet with me, the gnawing ache of emptiness setting in as he pulled his hand free and stuck his fingers in his mouth, coming back to kiss me, and it never failed to stir me, the heady rush I got tasting the remnants there of my pleasure, mingling with the flavor of the wine from earlier and the underlying musk that was all his.

            “You have a gift,” I told him, when we broke apart, and robbed him of his reply with a brief shove to his chest, sending him sprawling backwards, pinning him effectively with my weight when I sat down on his hips. “My turn.”

            I could have spent the rest of the night exploring all of the muscles he had, the scars, the pale roughened skin dusted with short ebony hair that narrowed into a V as it crept lower. The red flush of desire was already showing clear on his cheekbones, though, and teasing would only be torture. Delicious torture, but torture nonetheless. I settled to run my hands over his arms, down over his torso and promising myself to explore the sweet taut of his back and the promising curve of his arse next time (and there would be a next time, that was sweet too), before shifting my seat down onto his knees, eyeing the prize between his legs, tilting my head and appraising.

            His chest hitched when I took him in hand, trying a few experimental strokes, easy back-and-forth up and down his (rather considerable) shaft, stroking his balls in the palm of my hand, finding his likes and discovering he rather liked it when I slid down relaxed and easy, put a twist and a squeeze into the upstroke and swiped my thumb across the tip, slicking the way with the fluid welling there. He’d thrown his forearm across his eyes and lain and gasped softly as the flush on his cheeks arrowed down over his chest, but his arm flew off and slapped the covers when I bent my head and took him into my mouth, sucking ever so softly, unable to help my smile when he cursed and gripped the bedspread, fingers of the other hand threading down into my hair. I pulled off with a wet _pop,_ swiping my tongue over my lips and flashing him an innocent look- “Too much?”

            “Valar, no,” he breathed, pushing me down again, as desperate as he possibly could make it without forcing me. “Don’t stop, don’t ever stop. Oh, fuck. Gléoláf-”

            “Right here,” I murmured, taking him in again, smoothing my hands over his thighs, pulling him in towards the back of my throat and pushing past the initial resistance there, swallowing once and blinking rapidly when he hissed out another curse and pushed me off with a half-aborted moan. “Good…not going to last long like that.” I shifted back onto the pillows, propped up on my elbows, ready now for him, beyond ready. He came forward as well, and I’d shifted onto my back preparing for him to come over me when I realized he’d propped himself up against the headboard, sitting at a slightly-horizontal angle, pulling me into his lap. “How’s this?”

            “Perfect,” I murmured, looping my arms around his neck, shifting onto my knees and then coming down, guided by his hand on my hip, until I felt him nudging at me, and oh, I burned. I was ready, so so ready, beyond ready. I took him easily in one go, settling into his lap with a choked noise from us both, taking a brief look back to where we were joined now before finding his eyes. I held his shoulders, he cradled my hips, and I started to rock.

            It was almost too much, straddling that thin line between too much and not enough, and all too soon I felt the end coming, moans reverberating off of the chamber walls, bedframe creaking with our movements together, together, always together, and suddenly he squeezed at my hip, head thrown back against the headboard, hair sticking with sweat, “I…oh, close. So close.”

            “So soon?” I teased, panting softly, grinning, quickening the pace until he groaned.

            “It’s been almost a year,” he _whined_ at me, and he straightened and gasped, “and I love you, I love you-”

            Our climax took us together, complete and whole and heady, announced with strained cries to the ceiling and heaving abdominal muscles, several seconds of pure bliss that felt like hours while he spilt deep inside me and we made a gradual migration down to the mattress, under the covers, warm tucked into each other’s sides, fire crackling gently before us.

            I sighed with contentment, and he kissed the top of my head, wrapping his arms around me and cradling me close to his chest, my ear placed right next to his heart, where I could hear it thumping away beneath his ribs. I slung an arm over his hip, smiled, shut my eyes and sighed. “I love you.”

            He smiled against my temple, kissed my forehead and tucked the crown of my head under his chin. “I know.”

            Boromir cradled me close while we drifted off into sleep. We knew for certain we loved each other, and that was a reassuring notion.


	24. XXII: Dynasties' Destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of my days? Why was I thinking like that, when I had an immortal life before me? I turned again to Boromir, still sleeping but stirring under the covers, swimming just below the surface of consciousness. I ran my thumb again over the ring, looked at it before bending and dropping it back into my pack, going to the windowsill and sitting in the curve of the pane, watching out over the woods as people went serenely below about their lives, blissfully unawares of the darkness beyond their borders.
> 
> That choice is yet before you. The words had been a common thread in my life, ever since I had known I was peredhel, half-elven, endowed with the choice to live a life forever after in Valinor, or accept the double-edged sword of mortality and discover what lay beyond. At the end of my days.
> 
> I’d outlived so many already. The elves departed the Grey Havens, and my fate for years had been tied to the Men of the West, of Gondor and Arnor, the Rangers and Dale, the rolling hills of Rohan. Did I have it in me to see the end of days, my friends all dead and gone, passing me by like the summer winds over Evendim?

**XXII: Dynasties’ Destiny**

_January 25_

            When I woke the sun had long risen and was filtering in gently through the windows, a soft breeze stirring in the curtains. The morning was crisp and it made me in no great hurry to abandon my resident space heater and get up.

            Eventually, though, I got sick of the taste of my tongue and wormed my way out from under Boromir’s arm, trying not to stir him too much or wake him up. I slipped out from under the covers and paused when I saw our clothes and related belongings placed neatly down by the door, and took a peek back at the sleeping lump on my bed before bending and rummaging in his pack, finding his spare white shirt and pulling it up over my head, retrieving a pair of breeches and tossing them over the endpost.

            I moved to the fire, poked it until a lazy flame was stirred up and put a kettle over the hearth, moving to push the curtains open and let the sun in. The breeze was fresh and made me sigh happily, and I turned back to the inside, hissing out a half-aborted curse when I knocked toes with something metal.

            I knelt and picked up my ring, rolled out of my pack, the signet of Lórien, the one marking my inheritance. _Heir to three dynasties, though only in name._ Lothlórien would be empty before the end of my days.

            The end of my days? Why was I thinking like that, when I had an immortal life before me? I turned again to Boromir, still sleeping but stirring under the covers, swimming just below the surface of consciousness. I ran my thumb again over the ring, looked at it before bending and dropping it back into my pack, going to the windowsill and sitting in the curve of the pane, watching out over the woods as people went serenely below about their lives, blissfully unawares of the darkness beyond their borders.

            _That choice is yet before you._ The words had been a common thread in my life, ever since I had known I was peredhel, half-elven, endowed with the choice to live a life forever after in Valinor, or accept the double-edged sword of mortality and discover what lay beyond. _At the end of my days._

            I’d outlived so many already. The elves departed the Grey Havens, and my fate for years had been tied to the Men of the West, of Gondor and Arnor, the Rangers and Dale, the rolling hills of Rohan. Did I have it in me to see the end of days, my friends all dead and gone, passing me by like the summer winds over Evendim?

            _No,_ I knew in that moment. I knew that it was my destiny to die.

            Something left me in a rush, and I was left feeling somewhat hurried after it was gone, more urgent, more ready to stand to action, call to arms. I was much the same, save with the added awareness that one day I would cease to be.

            It’s a more invigorating notion than it seems.

            I rose in that moment and took the heated water off the flame, pouring it into two stone mugs and dropping tea leaves in both, humming softly, peeking behind me to see Boromir grappling his way slowly to wakefulness, and then to the door when Ghost pushed his way in, looking silky-soft and happy.

            “Morning, Ghost,” I said, and paused with a frown when I heard a “morning” said back. I looked to Boromir but he was still at least three minutes from awake, and then jumped when I heard _down here._

            I looked down, scanned the floor, and went to check under the bed.

            _No, back out here._

I straightened up again, narrowed my eyes, and looked doubtfully at Ghost.

            “This isn’t another of those dreams, is it? I’d much prefer the raunchy ones to this, if it’s the alternative…”

            _No need to be vulgar, just look down here. Hey, yeah, I’m talking to you. Crazy, right?_

I blinked.

            Ghost lowered his head to the floor and rubbed at his ear with a paw. _And no, you’re not dreaming. See, what happened was- oi, scratch my ear?_

“This is bizarre,” I said, but I knelt and scratched his ear for him.

            _Thank you._ His eyelids lulled happily under my touch. _That’s much better. Opposable digits, so useful, don’t you think?_

“I…suppose?”

            Ghost sat back up again. _Look, see, your freaky aunt of the melodious monotone-_

“Great-grandmother,” I corrected.

            Ghost fixed me with what could almost be an exasperated look. _Well, forgive me, I’ve only just been gifted with your vocabulary; I don’t know all the terminologies yet._

“Sorry,” I said, “Force of habit. You were saying?”

            _Right, so, she came up to me and said something about a destiny and me helping you- something about friendship, isn’t that nice? And, so, now I can talk to you._

“Just me?” I inquired, raising my eyebrows.

            _Yep,_ he said, cheerfully, tongue lolling. _You, Lady Wolf-tamer, have a penchant for the wolves. It’s partly to do with how well you read us wolves, and partly about the freaky great-grandmother magic, but we pretty much have a mind meld now. Awesome, right?_

            “Um…” I hesitated. “I don’t hear what you’re _thinking_ , do I?”

            Ghost appeared to shrug. _Nah, just what I say. Same goes either way, it’s not that I hear your thoughts- it’s a good thing too, with the way you look at that fellow over there it’d be literal hell entertaining all your fantasies in my own head._

            I felt myself flushing a little, and looked aside.

            _What, something wrong?_ Ghost questioned, with a cock of his head.

            “No,” I sighed, getting up, going to scoop out the tea leaves from the mugs. “Just…the morning’s been full of developments is all.”

            I heard a swishing at the door and turned to see Ghost leaving, and moments later a tired mumble sounded from the bed. “M’what day’s it?”

            “Twenty-fifth of January,” I said, turning to get a good look at my bedmate and smiling at his bleary eyes and rumpled hair. He hadn’t gotten a shave the day before; I recalled him being clean-shaven in Rivendell, but I liked the look on him. “I’m making tea; it’ll be ready in a few moments. The honey just has to set.” He mumbled incoherently in tired agreement, and slumped back onto the pillows. Grinning, I crossed the room and hopped back up onto the pillowy comforter, leaning on his chest and raking my hands through his hair. “Is this what you’re like the morning after a good fuck or four?”

            He sighed, gave half a chuckle and muttered my name, “Gléoláf.”

            “S’my name,” I agreed, with a cheeky smile. “Don’t wear it out.”

            He smiled at me, furrowing his brows just a little, slid a hand gently against my cheek and asked, “Have I told you I love you?”

            I leaned in close, touching our noses together and replied, “Not today.”

            He kissed me, and soon the covers had been thrown back and his shirt wiggled out of, tea forgotten, bodies locked and undulating in the slow morning burn, rediscovering everything in the soft glow of the new sun.

            It was nearly an hour later before I was ready to abandon the position we’d assumed after finding completion, his firm physique covering mine own svelte form, hair fanned out across the pillow while he toyed it through his fingers and occasionally pressed a kiss to my cheek, jawbone, forehead, temple, eyelid, nose, lips (he liked kissing, I learned easily).

            “What’s this fixation with my hair?” I asked, after our long perfect silence, broken only with contented sighs and loving smiles that said all with no words.

            “It’s like spun gold,” he told me, twirling a lock as he spoke. “Noblewomen in Gondor may take pride in their slender waists and their bustling cleavage, but they do envy the Rohirrim their hair.”

            “You like the hair?” I cocked an eyebrow, smiling. “There’s a scandal. Son of Gondor prefers the ladies of Rohan for their golden locks. I can see it now. Down with the citadel. You’ll come home to schoolboys constructing barricades in the streets.”

            “I prefer you,” he said, running gentle hands down the sides of me- not the curviest I knew, I’d made my peace with that long ago- but the way he held me, looked at me, smiled, reverent, made me feel more beautiful than any of the otherworldly ellyth I had ever seen. “You’re more real. You’ve lived.” His fingers gently traced a scar across my hipbone, and paused there to rub a circle with his thumb. “I love every bit of you.” Perhaps sensing my train of thought he covered one small breast with a large hand and leaned forward for another kiss. “And don’t start worrying about how big these are, darling; you have them, I’m thrilled. Besides, I’m sure they’re less of a nuisance in a fight this way.” That made me laugh, and after he joined in and we both had a good chuckle, we loved again amidst the twisted sheets, finding our release, together as always, foreheads pressed together and eyes blissfully closed as he moved slowly inside me.

            When finally we sought to get up; get dressed and the like, the tea was cold.

            I drank it anyway, shrugging. “It’s not bad this way, actually. Wonder if I iced it…?”

            “Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed, and I gave him a mock-wounded look. “Don’t patronize me. I’m sure the man who sat at a cow’s udder and said ‘I’m going to squeeze this and drink what comes out of it’ got the same reaction, and look at us now.”

            He only laughed again, scooping me up and kissing me soundly, setting me down after a moment and wrapping an arm around my shoulders, beaming. “Well, off we go, then.”

            Much to our company’s credit, a good many of them didn’t even bat an eye at our closeness reentering the clearing. Gimli coughed loudly and hid a triumphant look under his beard, and Legolas only smiled, shaking his head and chuckling softly. Frodo looked over and nudged Sam, even managing a tiny smile, and when Pippin and Merry caught sight of us they elbowed each other, grinning like mad.

            It was mostly (read, only) Aragorn who accounted for the affronted looks, and I murmured a soft suggestion to Boromir he head over with the others while I spoke with my brother, kissing his cheek and bidding him off.

            “Is this a stunt?” he frowned, as soon as I reached him. “Are you trying to prove yourself contradictory? What are you doing here, exactly?”

            “The last I checked you had no part in my love life.”

            “I know I don’t,” he said. “I suppose I’m just confused. The last time someone even suggested it…you, and…him…you flew completely off the handle. You hate him, is this…an arrangement of comfort on the road?”

            “It isn’t,” I retorted, coolly. “And things change, you among others should know that.” I took a look over my shoulder, watched Gimli clapping him on the back, smiled. “I misjudged him from the start. He’s a good man. A better man than I would have believed.” I turned back to Aragorn, took a deep breath. “I love him, _otoro_.”

            Aragorn sucked in a breath, squeezed his eyes shut and squeezed the bridge of his nose, bowing his head slightly and then looking at me again. “The last time you’ve said that about anyone, was…Haldir.”

            “And there all the more reason to believe me,” I said, sharply, voice rising a margin, “I’m not some foolish child who’s head-over-heels every other week; I’ve lived nearly half a thousand years, I’d think I know my own emotions by now.” He was raising a hand for calm. “No, no, I’m not denying you anything.” He sighed. “Just- I know I can’t do anything, I’m only…wondering.” He pursed his lips. “No matter. This is your business. I’ll leave it as such.”

            I put a hand on his shoulder and we locked eyes.

            “You’re still my brother.”

            “I know.”

            “Still my baby brother.”

            “Go kiss your steward.”

            Grinning, I turned heel and made my way back to where the others were gathered, around a shallow fire pit. I sat myself down behind Boromir, leeching over his shoulders and kissing him when he turned his head back, grinning, and we took graciously the congratulations offered by our comrades, to our long love and life together.

_February 14_

            The sheets moved slowly with us, tangled around us from the first (more energetic) bout, but they were soft and mostly out of the way, so we let them be.

            We finally ended up in our usual position, Boromir on his back with me splayed out over him, head resting comfortably on his clavicle, one hand in my hair and the other on the small of my back, lips nuzzling softly at the temple turned to him.

            “I only love you more every day,” he sighed, and I smiled softly, face heating perhaps a degree. “I know.”

            I could feel him grin before he took my knuckles, relaxed and easy, and pressed a kiss onto them. “This has been the happiest few weeks of my life.”

            I lifted my head to smile. “I couldn’t agree more.” I kissed the bridge of his nose, rolled off of him to cuddle up to his side, sighing and closing my eyes when an arm wrapped around me.

            “I love you.”

            Eyes closed drowsily, I smiled.

            “You know you’re the first one to have ever meant that.”

            I could feel him shift; know he was giving me a look.

            “I’ve had a father and I’ve had brothers, darling, and that isn’t the same.” I opened my eyes, just enough to look at him. “You’re here now. I have you. And that’s enough for me.”

            Soon enough I was drifting back off to sleep, but his voice stirred the fog in my brain, bringing me somewhat back to wakefulness. “When we leave here.”

            “Hm?”

            “I…I shan’t be continuing with the company.”

            I opened my eyes, lifted my head. He was staring out the window, at the moon. “The Ring’s more of a danger now, the closer we get to Mordor. I can’t…I don’t trust myself being under its influence. I couldn’t bear to think what I might do…to you, or…someone else.” His fingers stroked lightly along my shoulderblade. “When we leave these woods I’ll be parting company and going home. I’m needed there anyways. Too long gone.”

            I digested that for a moment, in silence. “And me?”

            He kissed my knuckles again, told me, “Go where you will. Do what you feel you have to. I won’t order you anywhere.”

            “Good,” I said softly, almost deadly. “You shouldn’t.”

            “I have no illusions about your independence,” he said, smiling, but still he looked sad. “You’ll be continuing with them, though, won’t you?”

            I shifted onto my elbow and lifted up my palm, stared at the silvery circle in my palm. Remembered the whispers. Remembered Galadriel’s words- _Eventually, even you will fall prey to its lure of power._

            Suddenly, I shook my head.

            He looked almost awestruck. “No?”

            “No,” I repeated, clenching my hand into a fist, hiding the scar from view. “No. Where you go I’ll follow you. You go home to Gondor, my brother’s throne waits him and as his heir it wouldn’t be out of my interests to secure his place for him as best I can.” I met his eyes again, and now he was smiling, almost as bright as the sun, and it was dangerously intoxicating to know it was because of me. Because I would be coming with. Because I would be by his side.

            Oddly enough, I felt like that was the place I belonged.

_February 20_

            Presently I sized up my reflection in the mirror. From the front there was nothing different; really. One could almost assume that it was all in my head, a conjuring of my imagination, but then I turned to the side. There was a definite change there- an added thickness through my belly and my thighs that probably I only noticed now. It really wasn’t a surprise, considering all the reckless love I’d been partaking, but it didn’t stop me looking sideways at my reflection with a sort of awe, reaching slowly down and curving my hands around the minute swell of my stomach, wondering how long it would be, wondering if my firstborn would be a son or a daughter.

            I didn’t notice Boromir until he was right behind me, looking first at our reflection and then stepping close in behind me, adding his hands to mine and looking down at me in absolute wonder.

            “How long…?” he whispered, hushed and almost reverent.

            “Four weeks at most,” I said, soft, curling my fingers around to capture his. “A month. I haven’t been sick in the mornings; else I would’ve known sooner.” I peeked around, chanced a small smile and said, “We’re going to be parents.” His answering grin nearly knocked me off my feet.

            “Well, this only makes me certain,” he said.

            “Certain of what?” I asked, frowning.

            He pulled his hands free, reached into his pocket and pressed a ring into my hand: looking blessedly nothing like _the_ Ring, colored a bluish-silver and set with an onyx, a sapphire, and a garnet, side-by-side-by-side. He squeezed my hand and whispered, “I hear it’s beyond easy to elope in these woods. Let’s get married.”

            I could only smile.

            That night saw us as husband and wife; the princess of the granite throne and its keeper. Fitting, in a way. He curled up behind me under the covers, a hand pressed protectively over my belly, nose fitted under my ear, breath fanning softly across my cheek. We left Lórien two days later, in elven boats amid gifts from the Lady of the Wood, not least of all the sword she’d given me. The sword, and a reminder of her words, of what was to come. I sat in a boat with Legolas and Gimli, twisting my ring absently on my left middle finger, watching the water go by and knowing that before very long I would be gone from these ranks and turning towards the home I had bought with my wedding under the moon, in the woods of Lórien.


	25. XXIII: The Road So Far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looked down sideways to me, off to where my things sat with Boromir’s, ready to go, and then to Boromir, appropriating his farewells, telling the hobbits to practice their forms. It made me smile, and I looked back to Aragorn, nodded up at him, and stepped closer to clasp his shoulder. “Take care of them.” I nodded to the others. “All of them.”
> 
> “Of course.” If anything his voice sounded a bit thick. Were his eyes watering, or was that a trick of the light?
> 
> I squeezed tighter. “That includes you. I want you back from the jaws of death, ready to come plant your arse on the throne I’m going to win you.”
> 
> “Right. I’ll save the world, you’ll install my dynasty?”
> 
> “Of course. You’re a hopeless politician.”

 

**XXIII: The Road So Far**

_February 25_

            I sang an old song absently by the edge of the fire that night, humming softly to the moonlight on the river and the stars.

_Far over the Misty Mountains cold_

_To dungeons deep, and caverns old._

_We must away, at break of day._

_To find our long forgotten gold._

_The pines were roaring on the height._

_The winds were moaning in the night._

_The fire was red, it flaming spread._

_The trees like torches blazed with light._

            Aragorn sat by my side, took out his pipe and lit it in silence. When he’d finished he puffed on it a few times, sent smoke billowing up into the air and took a moment before he spoke.

            “I hear from your steward you mean to leave for Gondor on the morrow.”

            “ _I’m_ not king, he’s _your_ steward, Your Grace,” I said, mildly, adding a foregone afterthought, “and my husband.”

            Aragorn took the proffered hand and examined the ring, blinking softly and inquiring after a long silence, “How long now?”

            “Five days, not long,” I told him, propping my head on the heel of my hand, my elbow at my knee. “I can feel your disapproval from over here, brother dearest.”

            “Not disapproval.” The pipe dropped from his mouth. “Just…sadness, I suppose.”

            I turned to him, peering. “And why the hell’s that? I’ll be out of your hair, and I’m taking him with me. Leaving the wolf, though, someone has to keep an eye on you.”

            He snorted, I smirked. “After all, aren’t I your smothering older sister?” I reached over, rumpled his already-filthy hair. Eighty-seven years and he still couldn’t wash his hair. It brought a lump to my throat that I was more than willing to attribute to the child.

            “Well, wouldn’t you be glad to leave me and this band of fools behind you?” he shrugged out of my reach, eyebrow cocked, corner of his mouth twitching, betraying his amusement. “After all, I’ll always be your irritating little brother. I don’t even know, in fact, why _I_ put up with _you_ , much less as to my illusions of why or how _you_ put up with _me_.”

            “Damn near stitched to my leg until you were twelve,” I grumbled. “And don’t think I adored you; the twins’ tales are all _lies._ Couldn’t stand you. Thirty years later you were _still_ goddamn irritating. Maybe after eighty-seven years I’ve just gotten used to the fact that I’m stuck with you.” Another dry smile. “Either that, or I’ve been drinking more.”

            We looked at each other until we started to chuckle; and somehow hearing each other laugh sent us both into gales of hysterical cackles, until our sides hurt and our eyes were watering. We both ended up snorting, too, and I can’t remember for the life of me who had been a snorter before and who had passed the trait to whom, but we both did it by then and we both sat there chortling at ourselves until we could get a handle on it.

            “What they must look like,” I snickered, “just think; here are their fearless leaders-”

            “Hush,” he admonished me, still giggling, batting weakly at my arm and wiping his eyes, taking huge shuddering breaths to steady himself. “Oh, swear to me I’ll see you again.”

            “Well, I suppose I’m good for a laugh once in a while,” I muttered, with a melodramatic eye-roll. Then, lowering my voice, “and I suppose. You know I’d never repeat this in company, but I love you, little brother.” I held his eyes, quietly intense and icily blue like they had been since the very first day; chilly serious and mirror bright by turns, the eyes that had rendered any guise of his useless. At least to me. I knew my little brother’s eyes- he couldn’t hide from me. It spoke volumes to me that over the years; he stopped trying.

            I clasped his hand tight in mine. “I’ll come back.”

            “That’s a promise?” he said, a hint of that little boy I’d left for Lórien and Erebor showing in his voice. Maybe he had a right to be afraid; it had taken me a year to make it there and back again from that unexpected journey to the desolation of Smaug- and surely, I know, I hadn’t been the same.

            Perhaps change was inevitable. No, I knew so. At turns something to be dreaded or to be feared, anticipated, relished, and in general expected.

            And perhaps, even, hoped for.

            He looked to Boromir, and I followed his gaze: speaking to the company around the fire, explaining our detour (our exeunt was a better word, maybe), hands folded before him while he talked. It was too far to gauge the reaction of the others, but the look my brother had was clear. It was the face he got when he wasn’t sure about someone. Not a common look on him; for his skills in reading people were unparalleled, but every once in a while someone baffled him. And the twitch in his jaw read clearly, to me, _and just my luck she married one of those people._

            “He’s a good man.”

            Aragorn turned back to me, blinked, sighed. “Yes,” he said, finally.

            “Yes?”

            “You say he’s a good man. I’ll take your word,” he told me, shifting where he sat and looking at his pipe to realize it had gone out. Sighing again, he set to relighting it.

            I watched him, a bit of an amused smile stuck on me, halfway-maternal in a way. _It’s the child,_ I thought again to myself, and put my hand on his shoulder while I stood. “One day you’ll have to take more than my word,” I promised, ruffling his hair enough for him to shoot me a dirty look. _Oh, hush, like I can make it any worse._

            “You’ll be with us tomorrow?” he asked me.

            “Until we stop,” I said, “and then, I…suppose we’ll be on our way.”

            He nodded, turned back to his pipe, sighing when it refused to catch. “Goodnight, then.”

            “Night, Aragorn.” I turned back and walked for where I’d laid out my bedroll, turned to watch him one last time. He tried once more as I looked on to light the pipe, and finally gave up on it with a sigh. He put it away and dropped his chin onto his hand, falling into a thinker-type pose and going still like a statue.

            I stripped out of my outermost layer, laid down and pulled my cloak over me, exhaustion springing suddenly from a guarded place in my mind and overtaking me far more easily than I would have thought.

_February 26_

            The next day on the river, Boromir seemed on edge. He looked at Frodo a bit on the frequent side, and I realized after a few hours I was doing it too. I was glad to think that by sundown we’d be out from under the oppressive influence of the Ring of Power, guilt at leaving the company I’d pledged to outweighed by immense relief at forging a path back to a place where I was certain of the strength of my own will.

            We passed the statues of the Argonath in the afternoon; the sun high overhead and beating down on my exposed neck. I shot it a disgruntled look and muttered darkly when I got sun in my eyes and spent the next few minutes blinking.

            The Falls of Rauros were (shockingly) roaring several yards ahead. We made landing on the west bank of the lake, pulling the boats up onto shore and unloading our things. Boromir shot me a look from across the lapping shore and I nodded, setting my pack down next to his and going to where the company was now relaxing into our typical camp scene. _Perhaps_ , my mind saw fit to remind me, _this will be the last time you ever see it._

            “We cross the lake at nightfall,” Aragorn called, “hide the boats and continue on foot. We approach Mordor from the north.”

            Gimli objected something about Emyn Muil and an impassable labyrinth of razor sharp rocks; I thought I caught a bit of “festering, stinking marshlands as far as the eye can see”- my brother shot him a peevish look and told him, “That is our road. I advise you rest and recover your strength, Master Dwarf.”

            While he sputtered about no dwarf needing recover strength, I came to my brother’s side, crossed my arms, sighed, and said simply, “It’s about that time.”

            He looked down sideways to me, off to where my things sat with Boromir’s, ready to go, and then to Boromir, appropriating his farewells, telling the hobbits to practice their forms. It made me smile, and I looked back to Aragorn, nodded up at him, and stepped closer to clasp his shoulder. “Take care of them.” I nodded to the others. “All of them.”

            “Of course.” If anything his voice sounded a bit thick. Were his eyes watering, or was that a trick of the light?

            I squeezed tighter. “That includes you. I want you back from the jaws of death, ready to come plant your arse on the throne I’m going to win you.”

            “Right. I’ll save the world, you’ll install my dynasty?”

            “Of course. You’re a hopeless politician.”

            He smiled, and oh, those were definitely tears. Was I crying too? I was.

            “You’ll take the safe roads?”

            “We’re cutting north into Rohan; I know that country like the back of my hand. We’ll stop in Edoras on the way, and Aldburg, and then we’ll follow the beacons south. I’m leaving the wolf with you; heaven knows you can use an animal’s sixth sense on the road you’re taking.”

            “He may leave us when we pass the gates of hell.”

            “Then he’ll find me. And he’ll get a stern talking-to, but nothing out of the ordinary.”

            _Ha-ha,_ muttered Ghost, seated at my side and making the canine equivalent, I supposed, of an unamused face. _Ye of little faith._

            “Hush,” I murmured to the wolf, and he rose from his haunches and went to sit by Pippin.

            I looked to Boromir, standing ready to go. Taking a deep breath to steel myself, I turned back to Aragorn, and nodded once. “Looks like that’s my cue to go.”

            And suddenly he was hugging me, tightly, so hard that I almost couldn’t breathe. But I squeezed him back all the same, whispered, “ _Na lû n _’_ i a-goveninc,_” and stepped back, went to the other members of the company and said my proper farewells: ruffled all of the hobbits’ hair, shook Gimli’s hand, cupped Legolas briefly by the jaw, sharing a wry private smile. And then there was only my beloved; my husband. He handed me my pack and I hoisted it over my shoulder, checked the buckles to all of my knives, quiver, beauteous hand-and-a-halfer from Lórien that I could hardly wait to try out: then I was only standing with him, face to face, the familiar stir of anticipation starting in my bones.

            “Ready?” he asked me, simply, slow smile starting at the corners of his mouth.

            “I think I am,” I said, mirroring him until I was grinning. He took my hand, “Ready for our honeymoon, dearest?”

            “Indubitably, my heart,” he said, squeezing our interlocked fingers and flushing slightly at the use of the sickly-sweet nicknames. One could be forgiven for such indulgences, I decided, on their honeymoon.

            We took one last look at our company, shared with them one last smile and saluted briefly before we turned, and made our way into the trees, to the south and the west.

            And that was how we left that leg of our journey, and forged our own path ahead. It was old hat to me, in a sense; I was far used to trekking into the wild, leaving safety and comfort behind for wide open spaces and the cold hard ground. But the stars were always brighter in the wild, and no matter how the years went by that fact never changed.

            Someone told me once on a quest long ago that home was behind; and the world ahead. It became a maxim of mine over the years, something I held close to my heart, being someone who so often was leaving a place I halfheartedly called home for the wild world. More of a house that wasn’t quite a home, but this journey beginning now was different- I could feel it already, a strange anticipation buzzing deep inside me. And it only took me a few moments to realize that this time, home was ahead. Home, my twin flame’s beloved city- his family and the halls in which he grew to manhood- home and my brother’s throne.

            No, this time a house was behind, and home ahead.

            And that one small fact made all the difference in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saint Patrick's Day! Credit to PJ, Tolkien, et cetera. Cookie for those who get my not-so-subtle title reference. Thanks for reading the story, guys! Comments appreciated, and be sure to check out my other stuff. :)


	26. XXIV: A Welcoming Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a lot of consideration, I've finally decided to let this story go. If anyone would like to continue it, perchance, I would be happy enough to mail the remainder of the plot to them and let them take the reins. Cheers!
> 
> PS: If you really like Fellowship OCs, check out my new story [Volume I: Fellowship of the Ring](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1101892/chapters/2216359). It doesn't feature Gléoláf herself; but rather she was split into two separate characters who each represent one side of her heritage. The story itself features four women in the Fellowship, which is a win in itself.

 

**XXIV: A Welcoming Wind**

_February 27_

            Everywhere snarls echoed in the woods. I looked around for Boromir, but somehow he’d vanished from my sight, gone, and the cries of my fellows through the trees only set my heart to beating faster. I ripped out my sword and called for Ghost, anyone, but nobody answered the call to arms.

            So I ran alone, following the sound of the snarls and hacking at the heads of the huge beasts that I encountered: like orcs but  _big,_ and if possible, uglier. I chased the sound of high, thin voices calling “Hey, you! Over here! This way!”

            “Merry!  _Pippin_!” I barked over the tumult in Parth Galen, rocketing over the ridge just in time to see something fly across the clearing. I didn’t realize it was an arrow until it had embedded into Boromir’s stomach, sent him to his knees with a strained shout of pure pain.

            I screamed.

            And then I woke with a start, gasping, sweating profusely but so, so cold. And horizontal. My head had been resting on a folded-up cloak, I realized, as I lifted it slightly and looked around at the dark. I twisted my neck to look back at the trees that lay behind us, sinister and foreboding in the night. I had shelter between a few boulders, beyond there was only open plain.

            A soft voice. “Gléoláf?”

            As my breath gradually acclimated once more, I registered the arm draped across me, and the body acting the big spoon behind me. When I turned my head Boromir was lying behind me, quite alive, his brows knitting concernedly. “Are you all right?”

            I kept my eyes on his face a moment longer, let the last vestiges of the nightmare fade away. “Yes,” softly. I turned over towards him, cuddled close to his chest and closed my eyes, breathing in his reassuring scent. Alive, and warm. “It was only a dream.”

            We slept a few more hours, until the sun began to rise, before we got on our way again. He made no mention of the dream. Perhaps he didn’t even remember; after all, it had been the small hours of the morning. The terror was still fresh in my mind, so I pushed it to a corner and ignored it there, the nightmare less real somehow in the rising light. We left the trees of Amon Hen behind, and moved eastward out across the plains. The sun was high above our heads and the conversation had been sparse as the grasses for a while when I looked around and saw something different. I halted suddenly, aligning the toes of my boots with the invisible boundary.

            Boromir’s footfalls in the grass behind me also ceased. “What is it?”

            I turned around and smiled at him. “Rohan.”

            “Hmm?” he raised his eyebrows, coming closer again, stopping just behind me.

            I turned back to the endless horizons before me, gestured at the ground below. “This is the border, here.” I rocked on my heels before I jumped over the line, fairly bouncing the few feet ahead, beaming at the turf before me and spreading my arms, closing my eyes. I barely heard him follow, stepping across the line and wrapping his hands around my waist, the gap between his thumbs growing wider, I would swear, every day. A gust of wind buffeted us both.

            “You didn’t make that happen on purpose just now, did you?” he said, next to my ear.

            “Who, me?” I questioned, innocent, batting my eyes up at him.

            “Yes, you,” he said, fondly, hiding a kiss on the cheek turned to him.

            “And how on earth would I do that?”

            “Magic.”

            I snorted. “Magic?”

            A kiss to the temple. “I, for one, think you quite bewitching,” and the tick at the corner of his mouth betrayed that he was only half-joking.

            I snorted again. “You’re a horrible liar, you know that?” Breaking free of his embrace, I began to walk with renewed vigor, and he followed. “All that talk of your exploits back at home and you turned out to be a hopeless romantic.”

            His steps accelerated as he caught up to me; and his eyebrows were up along with his infuriatingly charming grin. “What’s a little talk of sexual prowess among men? Mine own reputation, back in Gondor, of course, is one quite formidable. An old commanding officer said once; everything changes after your first drink, your first woman…” he slung an arm over my shoulders and continued, “and I, for one, have decided to add to said maxim with: ‘and your last.’” He kissed the top of my head with a smile, and I rolled my eyes.

            “I’ll never forget the look on your face the one time I tried to join in on that conversation.”

            “What would you expect? It’s men’s camaraderie-”

            “Maybe in  _Gondor_ …”

            “You and I both know we got off on the wrong foot.”

            “You know, Legolas was perfectly receptive to me throwing in my lot-”

            “I was just thrown off was all-”

            “I seem to recall hearing something about a royal whore.”

            “-I said nothing of the sort.”

            “But the thought was there! If a man beds a legion he’s accomplished something; if a woman’s done the same she’s a slut.”

            “Well, there’s your reform goal as the Lady of the Citadel, then.”

            “You’re just jealous I’ve done better for myself.”

            “Excuse me?”

            “Well, let’s take a look- I  _could_  have had the marchwarden of Lórien-”

            “That arrogant prick with the nose?”

            “- _if_ he hadn’t been dallying with that other maiden while he was supposedly courting me… ah, the first king of the renewed kingdom of Dale, who, by the way,  _slew a dragon-_ ”

            “Liar.”

            “I was three hundred ninety six when Bard was a young man, and believe me, he was a hell of a start. And yes he did, haven’t you ever heard of Smaug and the Battle of Five Armies? Then there were a good number of Aragorn’s lieutenants in the north- I doubt that means much to you- the current Prince of Rohan-”

            “You slept with Théodred?”

            “Memorable. The Rohirrim take it like champs; whether the saddle, or, ah, back.”

            “What you’re implying could cause royal scandal.”

            I grinned. “Try me. Oh, and, Steward of Gondor. I checked that box several times.”

            He shook his head at me, incredulous. “You’re…”

            “Brilliant? Dazzling? Irreplaceable?”

            “I was going to say impossible, but I believe you struck closer to the mark.” That soft, dopey loving smile that I hoped would never disappear was back.

            “See?” I shrugged my shoulders, gesturing at him. “What did I say? Hopeless romantic.”

            He gave a wistful sigh, the smile still there, though mixed with the bitter taste in the back of the throat they call homesickness. “My brother must have rubbed off on me more than I thought.”

            I halted, waited for him to draw up on me, took his hands and squeezed them. “We’ll see him soon, I promise. We’re going home, remember?”

            It took a moment, but he was smiling softly again, fondly. “Yes. Yes, that we are.” The wind gusted over us again, and we both turned to the horizon.

            “You did it again,” he said, softly accusatory, and I let him go with a smile, turning to walk again.

            “I didn’t do anything,” I called back, over my shoulder. “These are just the winds.” As if on cue, another brisk breeze bent the grass. “Welcoming me back.”

            The sun began to dip, and I figured before the light went down, I should check our course, recalibrate to Edoras before we went any further and stopped for the night.

            “You’ll get lost in Rohan if you don’t know the way,” I said, looking around us for the signs. “There are maps and roads and signs in places like Gondor and Bree, but none so here. There’s few cities, villages seem to melt into the grass and you don’t even notice them until you're nearly on top of them. Men think to make the land their own, not in the Riddermark. Everyone knows here that we won’t be the last to tread these plains, that we’re only borrowing it from the earth until it blinks and we’ve all gone.”

            Behind me Boromir was scanning the vast, empty space, blinking, looking vaguely confused.

            I came to a slow stop, turned back to the front. “You can easily find out where you're going, though…” I knelt, and turned over a tussock of grass, beaten and trampled into the ground by the pounding and churning of a hundred hooves. “If you know where to look.”

            I stood, wetted my thumb and took into account the prevailing wind. “Horses have been through here recently. Two, three days at most.” I knelt again, swiped a thumb through the soil, sniffed at it and tested it on my tongue. Iron, iron of horseshoes. “Riders. They were moving this way-” I pointed, turned away from the setting sun- “-and the sun rises in the east. They were headed south.” –turning again, just slightly to the northeast- “We came from there, Amon Hen.” –turn to the southeast, and point once more- “Edoras is that way, approximately. Seat of the king in Meduseld, capital if you will.” I got to my feet, brushed off my knees, and continued on my way.

            Behind me I could hear him shaking his head and muttering “ _confounded woman; half-tree,_ ” before his footsteps started up behind me once more.

            We set up a small camp that evening. Boromir watched me from a few feet away as I kindled a fire, finally coaxing the spark to catch in the cold, dry air. Soon the fire was crackling, flames twirling and leaping like dancers, casting a warm glow over us both. As soon as I scooted backward he looped an arm around my waist, pulled me in and kissed me deeply. I couldn’t hold back the soft sound in my throat that he swallowed with his lips on mine, and it came only naturally to wrap my arms around his neck, settle into his lap and press closer.

            He broke the kiss, breathing raggedly, murmuring huskily, “You’re going to be the death of me. I swear everything you do is beautiful.”

            Moment aside, I couldn’t help but tease, “There you go again, waxing poetic. Next you’ll be telling me how gorgeous I am in the throes of battle, how good I look lopping orcs’ heads off.”

            He silenced me with a kiss, deeper still this time, and it was in the sudden darkness that I remembered my dream, asked him when next we broke for air, “Death, you say?”

            “Aye,” he murmured, chasing my lips again. “Such a sweet death, they’d find me smiling.”

            I slid out of my boots, making room enough to peel out of my leggings, and fought with the ties on his breeches just enough to free him, bracing on his shoulders and sinking into his lap without preamble. He had a near-reverent look on his face while I rocked on him, soft sighs escalating gradually into quiet breathy moans. He cradled the backs of my thighs, pushing back against me, burying his face in my neck and groaning softly as he spilled into me. A few moments later, when his breath had quieted, he reached between us and rubbed his thumb in slow, easy circles until I shook apart, buried my head in his shoulder and sat for a moment, catching my breath. Finally, reluctantly, I rose and went to get my leggings back on, let him relace everything back on his end and recline in the grass before I slipped in beside him, under his arm.

            His voice was soft when he spoke. “I missed that.” He drew me closer under his arm, smiled when I yawned and tucked into his side, nodding in agreement. “As fond as I am of our company, I do like having you to myself.” His fingers stroked slowly through my hair, and he kissed the top of my head. “Sleep well, love.” I tried to stay awake, watch the slow rise and fall of his chest for a little while longer, but my eyelids grew heavy and slipped closed, and I was asleep before I knew it.


End file.
